Castle the King
by Closet Adventuralist
Summary: Sequel to Pawn Takes King, Knight takes Bishop, and Queen takes Rook. As the world continues to be invaded by a dark force, August takes the opportunity to make a run for it. Director Fury is not so interested in letting her go, sending Cap to keep an eye on her. Neither is prepared for what comes next.
1. Chapter 1

**As I promised, this is the continuance of the Guardian series with the Avengers. August, of course, wanted her chance to have her say. **

August had definitely had enough of this saving the world bullshit. After nearly draining all of her power reserves to save Claire, she considered her end of the bargain complete. Not that many of the team put up any kind of fight. Only Claire had asked her to stay-the rest, she knew, were probably glad to be rid of her. The big man in black watched her lug her bag out of the shiny building in the city with his one eye, unblinking when August shot him a sarcastic salute.

She had been busy during her short stint at Council Headquarters. Her files were ridiculously easy to access and even more ridiculously easy to cipher. The Council used an encryption on everything and years spent in their prison had taught her the majority of their lingo. She snatched up her record and spent a few nights combing through it while trying to keep a low profile. Claire kept trying to drag her into things, and even though August loved the thrill of the fight more than anything, she despised the heroic nobility of her fellow fighters.

Saving the world was thankless and bloody. It stripped away the humanity until decisions started to be made in terms of collateral damage as opposed to what was right. August inwardly sneered at the political games being played around her while she waited for the chance to escape. It didn't take long after the Gate was confined within Claire's dark magic for August to find that chance.

Carrying with her the deed to her parent's property in the mountains, August informed Claire that she was leaving and wouldn't be back. Without further ceremony, she headed out. Intent on hitchhiking back home, August was grateful for the warming weather. She liked heat all around her, the magic inside her body growing restless in the cold. The journey would be so much easier if she didn't have to expel a burst of power every few hours.

The morning was bright as she made her way to the main interstate. August knew the way home, had studied a map for hours to make sure she had the quickest route. Her backpack swung behind her with each step, patting her hips and upper thighs. The thing was half as old as she was and desperately needed replacing. She found that her sentiment for the bag kept her from tossing it. Her mother had bought it for her just before starting her last year of elementary school. It was her 'big girl bag' and was, at the time, as large as her entire torso. She wore it proudly, though, the pink and green colors reflecting brightly at the hooks at the back of the classroom.

Since her parents' death, she had kept her most precious items stored in the pack, ready for her to grab at a moment's notice. As she walked along the pavement, it still held her one picture of them and her mother's tea tin. Everything else had been lost or destroyed over the years. Looping her hands over the straps, August hummed a little under her breath, picking up her pace. The further away from the other Guardians she got, the better she would be. They were a complication, a nuisance that distracted her from getting back to her own doings. August wanted nothing to do with the darkness and the search for the villain behind the magic of the Gate. She wanted nothing to do with Claire or, for Christ's sake, the company she was teaming up with. They were all secret keepers and August was tired of dealing with it.

Hopping down onto an overpass, August squared her shoulders and stuck out her thumb. She was going home and that would be the end of it. After about twenty minutes of alternating between standing and walking, August got a bite. The driver was a young, professional looking woman who could take her as far as the outskirts of town. She looked at August with a piteous expression that made August itch. When they pulled to an awkward stop, the woman offered her ten dollars and a granola bar. August took the offerings without guilt or shame even though she had pilfered a whole box of Lucky Charms and a high tech Stark Industries water bottle with a built in filtration on her way out.

The next car to pick her up took an hour of waiting. August filled the time thinking about what she would do once she got back home. The property had been vacant for many years and would likely need repairs. She could busy herself with that while she applied for jobs in town three miles away. Without a driver's license or work experience she would have to do something menial. August kind of liked the idea of working as a waitress or stocking shelves. It would be a nice break from the rapid pace of the prison and the whole running for her life situation. She could be normal for a while so that she could think on what she wanted to do with her freedom. Her revenge upon the Council had been taken from her by the darkness and she was unceremoniously left without a purpose.

After making it across the state border with the elderly couple in their RV, August settled in for the night in the hollow of a tree. Prison had taught her to burrow deep and stick there in safety until the sun came up. It was always better to have your back covered than to be left in the open. She used her back pack as a pillow, nibbling on the cereal while she watched the moon rise. Without the lights of the city, August could make out some of the stars. Her father taught her where to find Orion before he died, but the Archer wouldn't be visible until the wee hours and August needed to sleep if she was going to make it through the long winding roads of the desert the next day.

She dropped off thinking about plumbing and dreamt of the last time she saw the house. It was small, one bedroom and one bath. Her great grandfather had built it with his own hands. August had slept in front of the fireplace on a feather ticking that was five generations old. Her mother would tell her about the patches and where they came from. A cousin's old church dress, the curtains from her aunt's first home, the overalls her father had worn to the bone. It was a tapestry of their family and August often remembered how safe she felt nestled in its mass. That was, until the Council had come for her.

August was, in her mother's words, a little 'touched'. She could manipulate things and spin magic from a young age. Undisciplined, August had accidentally knocked over the Church's giant cross one day out of anger. From then on, the town had been on edge. After being released from school, August's parents kept her at home and tried to tame her skills. In vain, they attempted to hide her from prying eyes, but they could no more keep her inside than they could keep the occasional avalanches down the mountain at bay.

The Council sought her out, asked her questions and praised her skill. August's ego made her think that they loved her for the little tricks she did in their tiny living room. It never occurred to her to be scared of them, that they might want to use her for their own agenda. And when they offered to take her to school and teach her more, August had begged to go. Her parents relented on the condition that she come home for vacations. It was a promise she'd kept until the darkness found her out and slaughtered them. She hadn't been home since.

The morning was crisp and very nearly cold. Winter was easing into Spring and the frost was turning to dew. August crawled out from the tree hollow and made her way back to the main road. She would be able to get a couple miles in before the morning traffic kicked in. Three hours later, she was climbing into the cab of a semi next to a portly old man. His radio played only country music and there was a spit cup in between the seats. He could take her across the desert into the plains, but would then be heading south. August chatted with him a little and reassured him that she was perfectly capable of traveling on her own. The old man kept glancing at her in worry as they neared her exit. August kept her gaze on the road and pretended that she didn't notice.

The diner where she stepped off the rig was mediocre at best, but the coffee was hot and she could have as much maple syrup as she wanted with her waffles. She paid her tab with the ten dollars that the young professional had given her and stalked off into the fading light. Perfectly aware of the eyes that followed her, August tightened the straps on her pack. She kept her head down to hide the smile. It would be an easy fight.

They hadn't been drinking, which allowed August to think of them as fair game. Without the fog of alcohol, she could be sure that the three men following her into the rising darkness were fully aware of what they were doing. What they couldn't possibly know was how wrong they were in their choice of target. She kept her pace moderate and moved steadily into the shadows away from the diner and the surrounding streetlights. There would be no need for witnesses at this particular showdown.

When August was sure that she was far enough away, she cast a glance backwards, feigning anxiety. The men were dressed casually in t-shirts and jeans. One was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. It didn't take long for the catcalling to start, little kisses to the air and long whistles. August picked up her pace marginally, counting to fifteen before looking back again. The group was gaining ground, but wasn't advancing quickly upon her. August sneered to herself as she realized that they enjoyed the chase.

Their calm demeanor and the patience with which they followed led her to believe that this wasn't their first rodeo. Each passing second dug their grave deeper as August grew angrier, power rising into the pores of her skin. She scanned the horizon for a good spot, finding an indention in the tree line. Then, she bolted. Like good dogs, they followed behind her, snapping at her strategically placed heels. August had to stifle a laugh when they split up in an attempt to surround her. Really, they were making it far too easy.

Ducking under a low hanging branch, August swung out a leg and unbalanced the nearest man. She heard him curse as he struggled to stand. She'd dislocated his knee, the characteristic pop loud in the silence of the night. With no small amount of precision, August toppled him once more and wrapped her fingers around his neck, twisting it unnaturally. There was no time to admire her handiwork, she had two more to contend with.

Leaving the body to be found by someone else, August climbed a nearby tree and waited. The second man stepped carefully through the brush so silently that August immediately spotted him as a hunter. He was tracking her movements like some kind of wild animal hunted for sport. It surprised him to find his comrade laying out on the ground, but he recovered quickly. Turning in a circle, he looked for more clues as to her whereabouts. From her vantage point, August caught the third man circling around his friend and knew she needed to act fast. Hunching down, she sprang.

It couldn't be helped that the man she'd taken down called out as soon as she landed atop him. She merely used what little leverage she had to snap his rotator cuff and render his dominant arm useless. With at least a hundred pounds on her, August would need the added advantage if she wanted to avoid using her magic. Magic only called to the dark, sending out a beacon for her whereabouts. Besides, she could take down these motherfuckers with her bare hands. Straight up.

The second man was dispatched in much the same manner as the first, which left one final opponent. August didn't bother to hide, standing over the two dead bodies at her feet with a proud posture. Confusion and fear would only make him easier to kill.

"What the fuck?" He said, tipping his ball cap back a little.

"I wasn't expectin' company," August said lightly. "I apologize that I'm less than hospitable."

"Fucking bitch," came the inevitable slur.

August laughed, "You'd be amazed at how often I hear that phrase."

His shoulders canted forwards and August dropped a little in her stance. Her blood cried out for the battle, readying the huge drop of adrenaline.

"Fantastic," August drawled.

And then she was being tackled, lifted, and slammed into the ground. With a wild scream, she wrenched her body around and head butted him. Daintily, she rolled away and stood. He wiped at his bloodied nose as he stood, air wisping through his lungs. Another lunge. Another tackle. A broken cheekbone.

"Keep this up and you won't have no face left," August taunted.

He wailed in rage and pain, trying two more times to subdue her. She broke his wrist next and activated a painful pressure point. The power rose in her, barely checked when he glanced her shoulder and spun her sideways and off balance. Catching her footing, August squared herself mightily.

"You gonna lie down and die?"

The man seemed to consider the statement as he tried to clear his vision. There was a moment where August thought she had well and truly broken him, like one of her uncle's horses. But, then, he charged forward yet again. Deciding to be uncharacteristically merciful, August delivered the killing blow. He lurched forward, loose-limbed. The last of his breath blew out of his lungs and August watched him recognize his own death before the light dimmed in his eyes.

Still shaking from the exertion, August surveyed the bodies. Then, she grabbed one of their shirts and wiped down their skin thoroughly. Tucking the soiled cloth into a side pocket of her backpack, August gave the scene a once over. Three bodies of men, one clearly beaten to death, stared back at her. She had to tamp down the unrecognizable self loathing she felt. Her actions were justifiable despite their barbarism. She wouldn't lose sleep over it.

Turning on her heel, August walked another three miles in near darkness before falling asleep beneath a rock off the side of the road. When the sun rose the next morning, August could still smell the faint acidity of blood on her skin. Turning her mind from the memory, she hailed another ride.

On a stroke of luck, August was able to catch another trucker who agreed to stop at a rest stop before finishing the trek towards the Mississippi. She hopped out of the cab and nearly sprinted for the shower room. The water wasn't as hot as she liked, but the soap she'd snagged from headquarters left her feeling clean. Though she had only one pair of jeans, she was able to put on a new shirt and clean socks and underwear, which made her feel somehow more normal.

As she packed up her bag once more, August thought she heard the sound of a padded foot in the puddle of water left behind her. Instincts on high alert, she surveyed the room intensely. Seeing nothing, August slipped back into the muggy air and jumped back into the cab of the semi. It was a straight shot to the river from there.

When she finally said goodbye to the trucker a day and a half later, August was damn near out of food and money. The expanse of Kentucky still stood between her and her destination. Too proud to beg, August snatched a few energy bars from a gas station and filled up her water bottle. A wall calendar told her it was Sunday morning. Most of the populace would be at church, which left her walking ten miles before she found a ride. They were heading to the north, which was out of her way a bit, but the easterly travel would more than make up for the loss.

She rode in the backseat as the middle aged couple chatted aimlessly with her. Where was she from? Where was she going? Out of pure enjoyment, August spun a tale of betrayed love and hard times. Her lover had promised her a home in Louisville only to put her out on the streets not two months later. Usurping her with a mistress. They bought it, which was surprising because August wouldn't have believed such a load of crap. Still, they gave her money for a meal when they dropped her off a few hours later.

Another day's trek through a valley August recognized from her childhood and she was standing at the threshold of her parent's house, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. The walls were still standing, but the windows had been knocked out and the locked jimmied open. The kitchen she loved had been vandalized and there were holes in the walls of the bedroom. The bathroom tub was completely gone and all the furniture with it. August was left with an empty shell of the home she once knew and it killed her to stand amidst it.

Dropping onto the floor in the middle of the living room, August stared at the fireplace. There was still a very slight discoloration where she and many other children had slept before it. Crawling towards the spot, August ran her hands over the wooden floorboards, fingers catching on the indentations. She lifted her gaze to the fireplace, itself, touching the brick as fond memories rolled through her mind. Slipping hand around the edge of the opening, August opened the flue. Dust and debris dropped down with a wet splat. She reached further, her fingertips brushing against a small box.

Eyes closing in relief, August pulled the tin from its hiding place, the metal very nearly destroyed with age. Carefully, she opened it, her tongue slipping out to rest against the front of her teeth. Inside was the last framed picture of her family, her mother's heirloom bracelet and about three hundred dollars in cash. Disregarding the money for the moment, August fastened the bracelet around her wrist, the gold needing to be cleaned. She held up her arm, staring at it for a long time. It was now one of her dearest possessions.

Next, she took the picture of her family and held it to the light. Her father was wearing his one suit jacket and a dark pair of jeans. Her mother was dressed in her church clothes, a gingham dress edged with lace. August was wearing pigtails and a green sun dress. Her mother had made that dress out of donated material from the church. She remembered how it seemed to take a very long time for her mother to comb and arrange her hair. August had wanted to be outside that day, swimming with the kids who lived about a mile and a half away. The ride to the photo store was inordinately long in her father's old truck. The wait for their turn interminable.

August rose and approached the mantle of the fireplace, swiping at it to clear the dust and dirt. Then, she set the picture in the center and stood back. Her family smiled out at her and she felt some of the last dregs of sadness fall away. This was her home once more and August would restore it, so help her God.

The next day, August trekked down the mountain to the nearest town and looked for help wanted signs. There weren't many options, but a local bookstore was needing some part time help. August had never been much of a reader, finding action much more stimulating, but she said she could start immediately and she said that she was a hard worker. The owner, an aging man with snow white hair and wire spectacles looked her up and down before giving a soft grunt. She guessed that meant she had the job.

It would be two weeks before August would be paid for the first time, and even then she wasn't going to be pulling in the dough. At the local grocery, she bought only the essentials—and then, only as much as she could carry in her pack—before heading back to the house. The dirt trail wasn't much trod, it seemed. Unpaved, the flora threatened to overtake it in several places. August noted that she would have to work on it a little to make it passable for a bicycle and, eventually a car. The project would have to wait, however, as she had bigger things to take care of first.

It took almost a week to get the dirt and ragged leftovers out of the house and, without any money to perform repairs, August moved on to working on the outside. She pulled weeds until her neck and back ached with being bent over. She cleared the gravel drive as best she could and used an ancient broom to sweep glass from the broken windows into a small bucket. Every few days, she would carry the bucket with her to town and empty it in the dumpster behind the bookstore. The routine soon became almost comforting. She numbed her frustration and inner turmoil with focused plans for restoring the home and shifts at the store. Before she was really aware of it, August had passed the whole spring and the first few weeks of summer in this way.

Her project was coming along nicely, if her opinion counted for anything. She had managed to fix the holes in the walls with drywall and plaster and had just started painting the front rooms. The windows were still broken but she had covered them with cardboard and heavy pieces of fabric lifted from the upholstery shop down the street from the bookstore. The bathroom was still a mess, but August was able to wash her hair in the sink at the store a couple of times a week. The owner, Mr. Jones, left her alone every once in a while to run errands or to go to the bank. There wasn't much business, but the students from the local school came by every few months to buy out their selection of classics as the curriculum required. That, alone, saved the place from going under.

Most of her shifts were spent reading the home improvement books that were rarely ever touched. She learned about staining wood and repairing cabinets and laying tile. Nothing was too complex or off limits for her perusal. Her only limitation for executing her projects was monetary in nature. Her paychecks were regular, but small. Without power or water bills, her expenses amounted to food and a few extra pairs of clothes. Everything else was either saved or used for materials on the house.

August went without food for a whole pay period, stealing through the back door of a restaurant to pilfer small meals in between, in order to pay for a proper door. It wasn't pretty, but it had a deadbolt. She didn't lock it as the windows were still wide open, but August was proud of it on principle. One at a time, she replaced windows and broken pieces of brick until the exterior of the house was secure. The makeshift curtains were turned into small rugs and a blanket or two. When she stood in the middle of the living room now, the house looked almost livable. Sure, there was no running water or electricity and the bathroom was still a mess, but August had never felt more pride in her accomplishments.

One day, while she was making her way back home from the bookstore, August was surprised to see a shiny black car sitting in the space where her driveway would be once she could afford the new gravel. She approached it cautiously, tightening the straps on her backpack in case she needed to fight. As she got closer, the back passenger door opened and Director Fury stepped out.

August stopped a few feet away and crossed her arms, "What do you want?"

Fury smiled, "I have a proposition."

"Answer is no," August replied, turning towards her front door.

He followed, booted feet crunching in the grass. "You haven't heard my offer."

Turning to lean against the front door, August gave a sardonic smile, "I don't need to. Now if you'll kindly get off my property."

Fury was undeterred, he folded his hands behind his back and braced his feet, "The world needs you."

Rolling her eyes, August sneered, "The world has plenty of heroes—you have a whole team of 'em."

He shrugged, "None quite like you."

"Don't pander to me, Fury," August drawled. "You're not gonna get anywhere."

"I thought so," He said. "That's why I have a backup plan."

Annoyed, August opened the door and stepped inside, "Tell me quick, so I can get on with telling you 'no'."

Fury walked the perimeter of the kitchen, his gaze assessing. August kept her expression neutral, but looked carefully at his face. She wouldn't let him make her feel bad about her home. She wasn't a contractor, but she had done a good job and if he didn't like it, he could shove his opinion right up his ass.

"You've done a lot of work," he commented lightly.

August rolled the muscles of her neck a little, "I've had some time on my hands."

"Time," Fury began, running his hand over the scratched countertop, "A very precious thing."

Feeling her patience run thin, August yelled, "Will you get on with it already? Jesus, you're slower than molasses in winter."

He laughed and August felt her anger grow brighter, her power gathering in her core. She contemplated throwing him out with a burst of power, but there was no telling how many soldiers he had lined up for protection. Her time up the mountain had been relatively unmolested and August wanted to keep it that way. She didn't need any more people trying to catch a glimpse from the road or bringing over a casserole in an attempt to be friendly.

"Out with it," She growled, muscles twitching.

"Alright," Fury said, still smiling. "We've discovered that we're up against some kind of dark army. Every enemy we defeat awakens another sleeper cell and our agents are being overrun with assignments. Claire has some theories, but each new opponent is stronger than the last." He paused a moment, "Agent Barton was seriously injured in the last mission."

August tilted her head to the side, "I'm waiting for the moment when I should care."

Fury took a breath that she recognized as an effort to steady a knee-jerk emotion, "So was Camilla. Surely, you care for a fellow Guardian."

Shaking her head, August stepped forward, "I'm not a Guardian. Don't you ever forget that."

Fury's eyes narrowed, "No, you're stronger than a Guardian. Claire talks about your accomplishments constantly."

"Claire is optimistic," August retorted, "And blind."

He leaned against the counter, "For someone so young, you're very bitter."

"Prison will do that to ya," August replied with venom in her voice.

"I know," Fury uttered lowly. "I'm sorry that you had to experience that at fifteen."

August took another step forward so that she had to look up at him, "I'll say it again. Get on with it."

"It's simple, August. We need your fire power. Claire will take care of strategy, but we're falling behind and I am losing men."

August was sorely tempted to give in, the full use of her abilities a tantalizing draw. But, she would have to go back to that place with those people whose life mission was to be god damn heroes. August wouldn't allow herself to be exploited again, wouldn't allow her power to be the subject of some corporate agenda.

Swallowing against a dry throat, August pronounced very clearly, "Sucks to be you. Get out. I'm not tellin' you again."

Fury left without another word, the sleek car pulled out of her drive and down the road until it was out of sight. August stood at her door for a long time, leaning against the jamb and working to shove the unwanted feelings back down into the pit of her stomach where an inevitable ulcer would form. She could deal with that, she thought.

**Rough start for our character. I had some trouble mixing in her blatant immaturity with the fact that she can and has killed a lot of people. Hopefully, I have done the character justice.**


	2. Chapter 2

**On with Chapter 2. August gets interrupted by a man on a mission.**

August was left alone for another two months until the burn of fall began to set in and the leaves started to turn colors at the edges. She managed to set up a mattress and box springs in the bedroom and get a new toilet on discount during a Labor Day sale. There was still no running water, but she could start working on that before winter set in. Most of her dishes were stolen from the diner—few mugs, some silverware, and three plates. A quick trip to a local yard sale had produced a wonderful find, a couch. The seller was kind enough to offer to deliver (for a price) and August eagerly checked the window periodically as she waited for it to arrive.

Dust flying up from the bend in the trail had her frantically checking the house to make sure they had room to get the couch in and then she was unlocking the door and—stopping short. Instead of the F-150 truck she expected rolling up the drive, it was a motorcycle. The driver was wearing a helmet and a brown leather jacket. The khakis, however, were a little out of place. August worked her jaw as she recognized Steve's face flashing in the light. He set the helmet on the seat of the bike and smiled at her. August refused to smile back. As much as she liked Steve, there was a distinct flavor to this kind of visit and she didn't like the implied manipulation on the part of Fury.

"Afternoon," Steve said, chin dipping politely.

August took a moment to compose her thoughts. His arrival hadn't called for outright rudeness, but she very clearly wasn't happy that he was being sent as some kind of negotiator. Or, maybe, she wasn't happy that he thought he could bargain with her to curry enough favor that she might return to headquarters.

"Afternoon," August settled with, standing in the doorway. She crossed her arms and regarded him with a stern expression, silently waiting for an explanation.

"Ah," Steve began, his hand reaching up to smooth his hair, "How are you?"

"Fine," August answered, her fingers tightening on her biceps. He would need to get to the point, her patience was short.

"Good," he said, placing his hands on his hips, "Looks like you've been working on the place."

August nodded, eyes flicking out to the road. The truck was coming and it didn't look like she was going to get rid of Steve any time soon. She stepped out into the yard and waved the driver down, directing him to the best angle for unloading.

"Heck of a hard place to find," the driver said. He was a robust man wearing a baseball cap and sweating even in the mild weather.

August smiled, "Yes." She sent a pointed look to Steve, "Good for privacy."

The driver noticed her look and ran his tongue over his lower lip, "I'll bet. Well, let's get this thing inside. I've got a grandkid's birthday party to get to."

Before August could step up and begin working on unloading the couch, Steve was standing at the bed of the truck, dropping the gate. August sighed, but said nothing as she watched the two carry the couch inside. Steve, for his part, didn't even seem to be out of breath as he moved, the bulk of the furniture falling on him as the angle tipped downwards. He called out soft orders for pivoting and angles, the driver following seemingly without question. August would have rolled her eyes, but the prospect of getting the first piece of real furniture in the house was far too exhilarating. She could deal with the fact that Steve was just waltzing in and…moving things around. Following them in, she offered the man a glass of water, which he refused.

"I need to be going. Y'all have a good day, hear?"

And then he was gone, leaving August standing in the kitchen with Steve, who kept glancing down at his polished leather shoes.

"What do you want?" August finally asked, pulling her long hair over her should and braiding it loosely just to have something to do with her hands.

Steve's smile was genial, but she could see the edge to it. "Fury asked me to check in on you."

"Check in," August repeated slowly. "I'm not a child at sleep away camp, Steve."

"I know that," he retorted with a huff of breath, "But you're pretty isolated up here. Thought it might be lonely."

August leaned back on the counter, crossing her ankles and bracing her weight on her palms at either side of her hips. "I'm fine."

Steve nodded, "I can see that."

"So you can go now."

There was a short beat of silence, then, "Ah, I really can't."

"You've got to be kidding me," August breathed, "How long are you stayin'?"

He shrugged, the loose movement calling August's attention to the breadth of his shoulders. Steve really was built like a storybook hero, all boyish good looks and muscle. Shame that he was on Fury's leash.

"I'm here 'til they call me home, August," he answered.

Feeling herself fume at the indignity of being watched like some kind of errant teenager, August hissed and turned her head away, her eyes falling on the still open door. She walked to it and swept her arm outwards, indicating that he should leave.

"You need to get to wherever you're stayin'. I got work to do."

Steve gave her a once over, as if trying to judge just how mad she was at him. He didn't look satisfied when he finally nodded and walked outside with a murmured goodbye. August oversaw his departure, standing at the door until his form disappeared around the corner towards town. Then, she closed the door and turned to face the living room. She needed to figure out how the arrange the couch.

The next day, her shift started early, so August was walking into town just as the sun was peeking up over the edges of the buildings. She enjoyed the crisp weather, the whole world beginning to smell like it was burning. The dew would burn up in the early hours, but for the moment the air was just a bit chilly and goose bumps were rising up on the length of her arms.

Mr. Jones was already sitting at the counter when August strolled in, his morning coffee steaming next to him while he read the paper.

"Got a new shipment of books in," he said sharply. "They'll be needin' labels."

August nodded, "Okay. Got it."

She liked the way Mr. Jones talked to her—or, rather, the way he didn't talk to her. There were never any direct orders, just strong suggestions. He let her work at her own pace and, when there was instruction to be had, he showed her once and let her figure out the rest on her own. In short, Mr. Jones hadn't once pissed her off and she had, for the time being, kept her employment fairly secure.

The boxes were few but the weight signaled that they were packed full of new books. August picked through them, setting them on a table in ABC order. Then, she went to the computer and, one by one, drew up the barcode and labeled them. The process took more of her morning hours. When she finally clocked out for her break, Mr. Jones was still sitting at the front desk working on the expenditures.

"Wife made too much lasagna last night," he said without looking up. "There's some in the break room if you want it."

August said nothing, but nodded lightly in his direction, heading for the backroom. Indeed, there was far too much lasagna made for two people to consume. She cut a generous piece out of the pan and heated it up in the microwave. While she waited, August filled a spare glass with water and reached for her backpack. Inside was the high tech water bottle from Stark Industries, which she filled and shoved back inside the pack along with two plastic bottles she'd saved over the last few weeks. They would last her the night and into the morning.

Mr. Jones entered the break room to fill up his coffee, black with five sugars. August smiled very slightly, waiting for the microwave to ding. She pulled the hot food out and sat down at the small, round table to eat. Mr. Jones didn't watch her, occupied with pouring just the right amount of sugar into his cup.

"You can take the rest home with you, if you want," He said. "Ellen and I don't care much for leftovers."

August looked up at the back of his head, blinking almost stupidly at the suggestion that anyone wouldn't eat all the food possible. Then, she offered a soft thank you and continued eating. The lasagna was a little cold in the middle but she was far too hungry to care much. Mr. Jones left her to her meal, probably going back out to balance the books.

After partaking in another serving, August wrapped the rest of the lasagna in tin foil and stowed it in the refrigerator for safekeeping until she got off shift. The books in the back were set carefully on the shelves, the top sellers arranged neatly on the front table. August took extra time dusting the rarely perused stacks and making sure that there were plenty of the store's bookmarks for advertising purposes. By the time she made was seemed like her millionth round through the bookcases, the old grandfather clock chimed brightly.

Clocking out, August stowed the precious lasagna in her pack and waved to Mr. Jones on her way out. The streets were busy that day, but she was able to make her way out of town fairly quickly, utilizing the alleys and back roads she had come to know so well. The air was not too warm, but the humidity was up so high that August was sweating by the time she finally got up the mountain. As she made the final leg of her journey, she was dismayed to notice a familiar motorcycle sitting near her door. It glinted in the afternoon sun, striking her ire without even trying.

Trudging up the rest of the way, August checked the door. Still locked. Then, she peered around the side of the house, her jaw coming unhinged a little at the sight of Steve utilizing an axe with deathly precision. He was chopping wood for God knew what purpose, his sweat slicked hair falling forward with every motion. Swallowing in her suddenly dry throat, August had to admire how quickly he worked. The whole activity was well timed and had a rhythm that boomed with the down stroke. She wiped at her forehead and the back of her neck, feeling the grime of her sweat coat her palm.

As covertly as she could, August slipped inside and stashed the lasagna in the house. Then, she headed back outside and down to a nearby stream, rolling up her pants legs to her knees. Padding out, she cupped water into her palms and ran it over her skin to clean away the dirt and salt. Then, she leaned over and pressed her face full into the water, all the way to her ears. Holding the position for a moment, August pulled back and wiped the excess from her eyes. The reflection blurred with the ripples of movement, but eventually, she was able to see Steve's form approaching from up the hill. He shucked his shoes and socks and rolled up the legs of his pants, wading in to stand next to her.

"Have a good day at work?"

August glared up at him for his attempt at a domestic conversation, "What are you doing here?"

He sloshed water onto his face and arms, running his fingers through his hair, "Winter will be here shortly and you don't have a heat system. You'll need wood."

The answer was delivered with such sincerity that August almost thought that Steve was acting out of conscientious thought rather than upon orders. She had to look away to hide her confusion.

"Thanks," she finally muttered.

"No problem," he replied.

She was followed up out of the stream all the way back to her front door where she turned and stared him down.

"Can you just pretend that you're watching me?"

His face hardened ever so slightly and August thought she saw a spark of fire burst in his eyes, "I've got my orders."

"Of course you do," August sneered, opening the house. She didn't care that he followed her in and shut the door, effectively prolonging their awkward and strange interactions. Courtesy dictated that she offer him water for his service, which she did reluctantly, her mother's voice chastising her gently in her head.

Steve had sweat through the fabric of his t-shirt and August could see that he hadn't changed much in their separation. He was still beautifully made, as if hand crafted. Every movement was coordinated and every body part moved in synch with the others. He was, to her utter disgruntlement, still perfect. It made remaining astutely angry with him much more difficult when she kept trying to steal covert glances.

At least it was something to look at. There weren't many men like him in town and prison had been filled with monsters right out of her nightmares. Before that, August had only interacted with agents of the Council and they were far more academic than athletic. Her dates had been limited, but she'd used her time wisely, learning the bare edges of her sexuality at an accelerated rate. Just when she'd decided that groping and frantic gyration in the dormitory halls wasn't quite enough, her self-education had been cut short. It shriveled in the adrenaline of keeping on her toes and fearing for her life down in the deep, in the dark. Now, it was blooming again at the most inopportune time and she had to work at tamping it down.

Clearing her throat, August asked, "Where are you staying?"

Steve set the glass on the counter, "In a hotel in town."

"The one next to the old elementary school?"

He paused, "Um, if you mean the building that looks like it should be condemned, then yeah."

That was the building she meant, the school she had attended prior to being swept into the fold of the Council. Even in her youth, the school was dangerous to traverse. There were holes in the stairwells and the railings were always iffy. August's first experience with dodging debris had been in the science hallway when a waterlogged piece of drop ceiling fell to the floor right next to her. She still looked fondly up at the place when she passed it in the morning.

"They built a new one behind the high school. It's pretty nice."

August wasn't good at making conversation, having spent a lot of her life solitary. But, if he was going to be around, she needed to sharpen her skills a little in the hope that she could find a chink in the armor so that she could get him to go home.

"I saw it when I scoped the town," Steve replied with a nod. "Pretty nice."

Rolling her shoulder, August muttered, "The school board certainly thinks so."

His eyes narrowed a little, "We're really going to talk about a new school building?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes, "What else is there to talk about?"

Steve followed her into the sparse living room where she dropped fitfully onto the couch. He stood over her like some disappointed parent, his hands falling naturally to his slim hips.

"How about the fact that you're acting like a selfish child? Your team is getting beat all to hell while you… vacation in the mountains."

August shot up from her prone position so quickly that she saw him flinch. She filed it away to revel in later. In the meantime, she dealt with his pronouncement.

"I spent half my life either serving the Council or wasting away in prison. I think I deserve a little R&R."

His mouth twisted a little, "The mission isn't finished. The enemy is still out there."

"The _enemy_ is an unidentified ghost for all we know and pursuing it is getting your people hurt. Not my unwillingness to participate in their little crusade."

The air could be cut, rolled, and turned into a pastry with the heat and tension flying between them. August wouldn't back down because of the theatrics of one Captain America and his motley crew. They were big boys and girls, and the world was filled with other people that could handle their own shit. She didn't need to be involved.

Steve's eyes flicked down her body, again assessing her. She lifted her jaw and imperceptibly braced her feet, in case she needed to act quickly. Her instinct was to protect herself at all costs, even if she had to lay Cap out to do so. He turned from her and headed for the door, the presentation of his back more telling than any chastisement he could offer.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

August called after him, "You _can_ go home, you know."

Refusing to answer, Steve kept going until he'd flung a leg over his bike and stormed off into the distance. August thought he was being a little melodramatic, but she'd wear him down eventually. There was nothing more stubborn than a girl from the holler on a mission to not go on the mission. He would learn, soon enough, that she was not someone who could be swayed once her mind was set.

She saw him every day for the next three days, always working when she got home from her shift at the bookstore. He'd chopped enough wood to last them through the winter and her landscaping had never looked better. From the outside, the house almost looked domestic with its freshly washed shutters and inviting perennials. More than once, she begrudgingly invited him inside, thanked him with a glass of water, and awkwardly endured the silence until he decided to leave. Their interactions were never more than a half hour long, but he was damn persistent.

On her day off, August planned to clean the fireplace of the ash and dirt in preparation for the coming wintertime. It would be used regularly to heat the house and cleaning it now would save her from doing it while freezing her tiny bottom off. She ate some dry cereal, then grabbed an old bucket and stepped outside. The air was nicely cool as she walked down the hill, bucket swinging beside her. The summer was turning downwards and the humidity was blessedly low. It would rise throughout the day, but she hoped to have finished her work before noon.

The stream burbled at her feet as she swopped low to gather water in the bucket, hoisting it into her arms and carefully ascending the hill. Water sloshing, August meandered into the house and set the bucket down in front of the fireplace. Humming softly, she took an old rag she found in the bedroom closet and gently wiped the mantle and the outer brick. It hadn't been cleaned in probably ten years and the grime was thick. She dirtied the water quickly and had to throw it out into the emerging landscaping before heading back to the steam. Four or five treks later, she was getting to the smaller details and standing back to admire her work.

As she was going out to throw the last of the dirty water to the ground, August spotted Steve flying up the drive towards her. She sighed and turned back to the house, somehow less annoyed at his presence than previous days. Setting the bucket down, August wiped her hands on a clean towel (also courtesy of the local diner) and hopped up onto the counter to wait for him to come inside.

He ambled through the door wearing a pair of jeans and yet another white t-shirt, his leather jacket slung over his arm. August nodded to him in greeting, but maintained her regular routine of silence. Steve was nonplussed, his eyes falling to the dewy fireplace.

"See you're already hard at work," he said, striding over.

August took to opportunity to get a good look at his ass in the first pair of jeans she'd ever seen him wear. Unfortunately, he wore them really well. The fabric pulled tight with every step, showing off what hard work and training had done to the muscle. She blushed and dropped her eyes to her swinging feet. The shoes would need to be replaced soon, holes forming at the toes and heels. August hated to spend the money, wanting to make the final adjustments to the house as soon as possible, she knew that shoes were a necessary investment.

Turning, Steve glanced at her, "You planning to be here all day?"

August shook her head.

Brows winging up, Steve held out a hand, intimating that she should continue. When she didn't, he blew out a breath, "Giving me the silent treatment isn't going to get me to go away."

Dropping her chin, August glared at him.

"And neither will evil looks. I'm here until I get called back or you decide to work with the team and finish what we started."

August used an, admittedly, immature technique in an effort to throw off his game. It killed her to do it, but her morbid curiosity coupled with the need to hit a sensitive area made her stifle the inward loathing. In the time since she left the tower, she hadn't been able to update herself on anything going on other than the tidbit she received from Fury.

"Won't your girlfriend get jealous, you hangin' around with some girl in the woods for the foreseeable future?"

He stilled ever so slightly and August knew she'd hit a nerve. Recovering quickly, Steve shrugged and looked out the large windows in the living room, the rising sun catching the blue in his eyes.

"We broke up, so I don't think she would care at all."

August hated herself for the little stab of sympathy that lanced through her chest at the veiled emotion she saw in his eyes. Ending relationships wasn't easy for anyone and she could tell that this particular one had ended recently. It may have been the catalyst for him taking on the impossible assignment, a little getaway to lick his wounds.

"Sucks."

That was all she could say, not having the skill or inclination to tactfully backpedal to either save face or his feelings. He was a grown man and could deal with his own troubles if he needed to. She wasn't responsible for making him feel any better. She also wasn't going to talk about it anymore in case she actually made him feel worse. August liked Steve despite his irritating perseverance and valiant tendencies.

"I'll get over it," Steve said in a matter of fact tone, his gaze turning back to her.

August's tongue touched the back of her teeth, "I'm sure you will."

Adjusting his stance, he smiled, "So that's what it takes to get you talking again? A little empathy?"

She snorted, "I wasn't purposefully not talking to you before. I just didn' have anything to say."

He rolled his eyes, "You have plenty to say, you just refuse to acknowledge it."

"Seriously?" August retorted with a raised brow, "This from the guy who represents all manners and polite courtesy?"

"There's a difference between manners and stubbornness, August," Steve admonished gently. "I say something when it needs to be said."

"Right," August drawled, "I'm sure you do, Captain."

His eyes narrowed to slits and she wondered if she had hit yet another nerve. If she had, August considered herself to be on a roll and mentally congratulated herself on her excellent aim. It wasn't every day that she stuck a needle between the plates of the notoriously unruffled Captain America.

Slipping down off the counter, August reached down and grabbed her backpack, saying, "I've got to go to the grocery. Don't break anything, okay?"

Not waiting for Steve's answer, August headed outside and down the mountain into town. The grocery was small compared to the superstores she'd seen in the city, but it had a lot of variety. Local farmers usually sold their produce to the store and August was grateful for the seasonal offerings. She picked up some essentials and checked out, entering and leaving within half an hour. August had never liked shopping for long periods of time, finding that the longer she stayed in the store, the more she risked actually having to have some kind of interaction with another human being.

On her way up the mountain, August glanced to her left and checked out the hotel Steve was staying at. After living in Stark Tower for such a long time, this had to be some kind of torture for him. August doubted if the place would even score a single star. It probably didn't even have a continental breakfast in the mornings, either. She smiled, feeling ever so slightly smug that he was reduced to this while working an impossible mission. Served him right.

Climbing up the trail, August adjusted the straps on her pack and took time look around. Her near daily treks back and forth had worn a minor trail into the underbrush, which she hoped would solidify in the winter. Traversing between her home and town had gotten easier the more she did it and her muscles no longer ached when she got to either destination. The leaves were beginning to fall and the smell of burning got stronger with each passing day. August began to recognize the landmarks her father had taught her during his occasional hunting excursions. There were boulders and tree formations that marked the halfway mark and she could just barely see an old hunting loft high in the trees.

An unfamiliar marking caught her eye at the bend of the road half a mile from her house. A large tree near the trail had been scarred deeply. The marking was fresh, the wound still open and pulp still working its way out of the wood. August approached the tree and ran her hand along the truck, feeling the grooves with the pads of her fingers. Unwilling to use magic to detect just what had made the marking, August had to speculate. It was an animal, large, with strong paws. The claws were at least three to five inches long, judging by the depth of the markings. Not much else could be discerned with her eyes, alone, and August could not rely on the hazy memories of her father's hunting techniques.

With one last look, August turned back to the trail and made the last leg of the journey with a thoughtful step. She stepped through the front door and set her foodstuffs out on the counter to be doled out over the next few weeks until her next paycheck. A quick survey of the living room left her wondering where Steve had gone off to and what he thought he was doing. She peered through the front windows and the window overlooking the stream, her brows furrowing in question.

Sound from the bathroom, the scraping of metal against metal put her on high alert. She moved slowly across the living room towards her bedroom, muscles coiled. The bedroom was empty, save for her mattress and box springs. Pushing the door fully open, August craned her neck to peer into the bathroom. Steve was crouched at the far end of the small room, the broad expanse of his body blocking her view of what he was doing.

Moving closer, August tempered her steps to be as silent as possible, the soft, worn soles of her shoes barely whispering across the hardwood. He was bent over something, arm pivoting on its axis. The movement put in sharp relief the brute strength he tried to keep hidden, or, more likely, didn't even know was there in the first place. She could still take him, though, had proven it once already.

She cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

Steve turned and August caught sight of his little project. Somehow he'd managed to squeeze a claw foot tub into the small space. There were some chips in the ceramic and one foot had clearly been repaired, but it looked usable. Her jaw tightened, not knowing how to react to it.

"Got this at the junk yard yesterday," he said, touching one of the valves. "Thought you might use it."

She shifted her weight, "How did you know I needed a tub?"

He looked like he was blushing when he said, "I poked around a little."

"Sneak," August shot back without any venom. Then, "Thanks."

"Not a problem," Steve replied. "I like having something to do. Projects and stuff."

August said nothing, but raised a brow. She took another glance at the tub and scratched her head, moving back out into the bed and sitting down on the bed. Steve checked the valves one more time and then picked up the tools he'd been using into a toolbox. He hoisted up the box and walked past her into the living room. She could hear him puttering around in the kitchen, probably picking up some other project to occupy his time.

Shoving upwards, August guessed that she needed to keep an eye on him before he decided to make any more major repairs without her supervision. She turned the corner and threw up her hands, sighing into the air. Steve was underneath the kitchen sink, working on the plumbing.

"I can fix that, myself," August called out, exasperated.

Steve paused a moment, flicking his eyes at her, "I know."

She flinched, "You _know_?"

"Yeah," he replied, returning to his work, "I know."

"Then why are you doing it?"

He dropped his arm to his knee and looked at her with a hard expression, "It's your day off and I thought I would help you out. It's what friends do."

Her shoulders relaxed, palms dropping heavily to her sides. August had to look away from the earnest expression.

"I don't have friends, Captain. I haven't for a very long time."

Spinning away, August stepped confidently into the bedroom and closed the door. Flinging herself on the bed, she forced her body to shut down and sleep. Everything would be better with sleep, it always was. By the time she woke, the sun was beginning to set and she'd drooled on the bed sheets. Wiping her mouth, August sat up blearily and stood on unsteady feet, feeling worse than when she'd gone to sleep. The living room and kitchen was empty, Steve's bike also missing. The box of tools, however, was still on the counter. August touched it, too tired to feel angry that he was leaving pieces of himself in her house. It was a physical reminder that she'd be seeing him tomorrow and every day until Fury's patience wore thin.

Gazing at the faucet, August noticed the new gasket and fresh knobs. Steve had actually spent money on them, a thought that chafed as much as it warmed. Rubbing tiredly at the back of her neck, August made a mental note to finally turn the water on in the house the next day. Then, she opened a new box of cereal and ate a few handfuls in silence. Setting the box aside, August pulled off her worn jeans and crawled back into bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three... we get a little more interaction, a little more plot. **

August was sitting in a hot bath with candles all around, one foot hanging out of the side of the tub. The steam rolled around her in soft waves, running through her hair and between her fingers. It was a glorious experience that she hadn't had in half a year. Letting her head fall back onto the rim of the tub, she sunk deeper. Turning on the water and the electricity was probably the best decision she'd made in five or so years. Having a working oven and fridge (ancient as they were) along with hot water and an actual bathtub was fan-freaking-tastic and August was determined to enjoy it.

Steve still came over every day, doing odd jobs and trying to make conversation while August worked hard to keep him at a distance. She didn't know how much an expense account Fury had given him for this mission, but he seemed to want to keep buying little things—a lamp here, a doorknob there—and August couldn't help but to feel a little guilty. Her mother's voice kept talking to her, kept telling her that she needed to be grateful for the work and that Steve deserved some kind of thank you gift. August would be damned if she didn't know what kind of gift to give a man who was constantly underfoot and seemed determined to hammer a sense of morality into her from a sideways angle.

Having never quite learned the rules of etiquette for this kind of thing, August leaned back on the old reliable. She was going to make dinner and feed the man so that she could get this feeling of guilt out of her chest and into the open air where it would hopefully disappear. She'd asked him not to come by early that day, using the excuse of having to cook so that he would stay out of the house. He'd looked at her with confusion, but agreed with a short nod. August couldn't say that he looked excited for the meal, rather, he looked entirely apprehensive. Their relationship had been contentious for the most part and her olive branch was spontaneous and in direct opposition to her usual behavior.

With a few creative innovations, August was able to fry some chicken in buttermilk and cornflakes, whip up some mashed potatoes, and bake the cheesiest macaroni casserole she could muster in the short time between her bath and Steve's arrival. She had just slid the casserole in the oven when he knocked on her door. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, August let him in with a vague gesture towards the living room.

Steve was wearing khakis and a blue plaid button up top that was tucked neatly into his belted waist. His shoes and belt matched, patent brown leather, and the buttons on his shirt were mother of pearl. Clearly, this was something he considered as a special occasion. August didn't share his opinion. This was a thank you, sure, but she hadn't prepared something fancy. There was going to be no wining and dining, just an evening of the scales between them for the help he'd given her, unprompted, over the last few weeks.

"Have a seat," August called out, wincing at the slicing tone. She softened it with, "If you like."

Steve sat stiffly, senses on high alert. August couldn't blame him, could barely comprehend the fact that she was actually inviting someone into her home, her place of protection, and _feeding_ them. The shift in paradigm must have thrown Cap off balance, if only a little. She watched him rub his palms across his knees and wondered if he was armed.

"I've only got water," August said, filling a mug. "But its cold."

Steve took the cup from her, fingers carefully avoiding hers, "Thank you. Water is fine."

August cleared her throat and sat on the opposite end of the couch. She hadn't lit a fire that night, choosing instead to open the windows and let the air flow through the room. There was still a few hours of sunlight left and the evening breeze carried into the house steadily. August loved nights like this, remembering sitting out in the yard on an old blanket with her toes in the grass next to her mother. The lightning bugs would come out soon, along with the cicadas and the mosquitoes. A citronella candle on the mantle would help keep the room clear, but August didn't mind a few bites now and then.

"So," Steve stated, "Dinner?"

August forced a smile, "Yeah. As a thank you. For the stuff you did on the house."

His head tilted to the side and she could tell that he was gauging her honesty, then, "You're welcome."

"Uh huh," August replied airily, not knowing where to look.

The timer buzzed and she rose to pull the casserole out of the oven, reaching upwards to the cupboard for plates. She felt Steve rise from the couch and held up a hand.

"Sit down, Captain. I got this."

Dutifully, he sat, hands coming to rest on his knees again. August plated a serving of the entrée and sides, spinning around to set forks on the edges. Then, she carried both plates to the couch and handed one off to Steve.

"Thank you," he uttered softly.

"No problem," August answered.

There were several minutes of silence as they ate, the only sounds coming from the clinking of metal to ceramic and the occasional scraping of the napkins against skin. August hadn't done too badly with the meal, though the ingredients left much to be desired. She'd had to buy them on sale after a thorough search of the store top to bottom. But, the wonder of good herbs and spices could turn even the sale items into something appetizing.

"This is good," Steve commented between bites.

August paused, her response holding on her tongue ever so slightly, "Claire taught me."

Steve glanced up at her and she was stunned yet again by the color of his eyes. The crystal blue prompted flashbacks to the mandatory literature assignments from the early days of her training. Poets wrote sonnets about eyes like that, capable of expressing emotion without even trying—capable of entrancing. She looked away, dropping her gaze to her plate.

"Claire meant a lot to you," he edged carefully.

August scoffed, "Claire taught a lot of people stuff, Captain. She was the oldest, the most highly trained."

"You respected her."

Jaw tightening, August muttered, "Once."

Setting the plate on the floor, he leaned forward. "What happened?"

Eyes glaring up at him from beneath her lashes, August growled lowly, "You know what happened?"

Making a gesture, a roll of his wrist, he intimated that she continue. August sighed deeply and set her plate down, losing her appetite in a matter of seconds.

"She let me go to prison. She let me live in a nightmare for five years. That isn't enough?"

Steve shrugged, "From what I understand, she didn't really have a say in it."

Feeling her anger rise, August bit out, "Her testimony is what drove the nail into the coffin. I was _gifted_. I was special. I was worth more than a hundred Guardians because my bloodline was the strongest." She lifted her chin, "I was a liability in the real world, among normal people. They kept me in chains for being what I was born to be."

And then he asked a question August hadn't yet been asked since Claire came barging into her own personal slaughter.

"What was prison like?"

She thought about, recalling little details that at the time seemed routine. It took over a year to become desensitized to the violence inside and the occasional escape of a high security inmate. The guards mostly ignored her, sending food and reading material through her bars a couple times a day. As a VIP, August hadn't been forced to share a cell with anyone, but she saw through the bars into others'. Blood of all different colors and textures often ran through the balconies over the edge to drop onto the main lobby. The cleaning crews were, notoriously, excellent. In that respect, the Council was on top of things. Otherwise, they stayed out of the way, calling out directions to the guards from afar as they went on with their lives, forgetting about the beings they sentenced to life imprisonment on an island in the Atlantic.

Scratching her head, August started with, "Imagine the thing that wakes you up in the middle of the night, sweatin' with the comforter kicked off to the floorboards. Imagine you're standing in the middle of a forest with no one for miles and you suddenly hear the screams of a human soul being ripped from the body. Imagine nothingness for ages followed by so much stimulation you almost lose your goddamn mind. That's kinda what it's like."

Steve looked at her agape for a minute, saying, "You're very creative when you're describing things."

"I read," August replied dryly.

"I can tell," Steve said, eyebrows flicking upwards marginally.

Dipping down, August grabbed both plates and carried them to the sink, setting them down inside. Turning on the tap, she scrubbed mercilessly until the remnants were washed down the drain. She dried the dishes with equal voracity, rubbing the ceramic until the shine glinted in the falling sunlight. When the task was complete, August rested her palms on either side of the sink and stared out towards the edges of the forest. Memories she had worked very hard to bury were flying upwards through the rubble of her mind, reminding her of why she refused to come back to the team. They strengthened her resolve despite the anxiety and fear resurging through her system.

When her thoughts stilled for more than half a second, August turned back to the living room to spy Steve still sitting where she had left him. He was watching her intensely, but was unmoving and silent as she gathered her wits about her in a shield. With half a smile, August leaned against the counter and pushed her hair from her face.

"Any other questions?"

"No," Steve said. "I'm done."

"Good," August croaked. "I'm very tired. I'd like to go to bed now."

Rising, Steve looked like he was going to protest, but his eyes softened slightly, "Sure."

August didn't go directly to bed. She sat outside in the backyard for a long time, her knees pulled up to her chest as she thought. All the power in the world, immense magical strength, and she was wasting it in an effort to forget the horrors she'd seen and committed in the depths of the Council's prison. Her hands were drowning in the blood of humans and demons, alike, and it disgusted her how easily the killing had come. Feeling the life drain away from a demon, slicing into the flesh of a Were, or sucking the energy from a spirit all felt so incredibly good to her. It thrilled her, fulfilled her, satisfied her in a way nothing had ever come close to before. Death was her most beloved ally and it had never let her down.

Sitting in the grass, August looked up at the sky, awash with stars and the bright light of the moon. Her parents, if there were a heaven, couldn't be looking down on her with any kind of pride. She was nothing like they wanted her to grown up to be. August was a murderer. She was a killer. Her bloodline ensured that to the most minute degree. Her confusion stemmed from the overwhelming guilt she felt when she remembered this inescapable fact. If she were meant to kill, why did she feel badly afterwards when the adrenaline wore off?

Pressing her toes into the grass, August twisted her mouth in thought, coming no closer to understanding the primary paradox of her life. She listed to the side and lay down upon the soft turf, running her hands through the blades absently. The ground was dry, smelling like it had been cooked in an oven for about an hour. Closing her eyes, August let her body relax into the ground, driving her contemplation deeper.

There were no titles for what she was, whether she had been born into it or had grown into it through experience. August didn't even know what to call herself. Human was a vague and sub-satisfying word that barely hinted at the things August could do with the barest of efforts. Guardian was absolutely out of the question—on that note, hero was also out of the question. August broadened her scope. She was a young woman living on her own for the first time. Her life was now as normal as it would probably ever get. Hermit didn't quite fit and she certainly wasn't old enough to be called a hag. Spell workers and witches were generally unhygienic as a rule. Sorcerers and warlocks dabbled in dark magic, which August could barely tolerate. Nothing fit. August was nothing.

Pushing from the ground, August dusted off her legs, arms, and torso before turning to head back into the house. She thought she could tolerate being nothing for a little bit. Nothing was a big step up from being what she was in the depths of the prison. Nothing was better than being a lapdog to the government. Nothing was better than the ignorance of her childhood and the blind obedience to the Council. Nothing was good. For now.

August slept fitfully that night, hearing echoes of voices she didn't recognize and howls from just outside her door. The nightmares had been infrequent, the memories blotted out forcefully with the strength of her indomitable will. These were not memories that she was experiencing. She compared them to the visions Camilla often experienced as the Oracle. When August woke the next morning, the sun shining happily through her window, she knew that she had seen portents of some darkness to come.

Eating cereal straight from the box, August stared out into the forest that lined her property. Everything was exactly as she knew it, not a leaf out of place. But, the dreams from the previous night stayed with her and she found herself peering deeply into the shadows in an effort to see what could not be seen.

On the trek into town, August's senses were on high alert, every little movement was caught and analyzed. She returned to the spot where she'd seen the markings, the grooves still buried deeply into the wood. Without fresh markings or a new trail to follow, she had to continue on to work despite the feeling resting at the back of her skull that told her she was being watched.

The store was busy that day, students and book collectors, and young mothers with their infants held tightly to their hips flooding in for the release of the new biggest best seller. The murder-mystery was of little consequence to August as she had seen far too many murders that weren't exactly mysteries played out before her eyes. But, she indulged the inane chatter of the crowd, if only to make sure that they returned for the sequel and Mr. Jones' clientele continued to increase. She liked the old man and the store's success kept her from having to hunt down another job that likely wouldn't leave her with as much alone time while on shift. Back scratching and all that.

With the influx of people, August had to stay two hours past end of shift, but she found that she didn't quite mind it as much. Her body was still feeling the effects of her dreams and she didn't want to go back to the house until the feeling had been released—which was stupid, because her house should have felt like protection. One night of bad dreams had reminded her that protection was not always what it seemed and even the most heavily guarded fortress could not hope to stand its ground against a determined dark master.

When Mr. Jones started looking at her in question for her lingering, August grabbed her bag and took off without looking back. Sinking feelings in her stomach, she could deal with. Questions were not her forte. As she took the main highway out of town, August passed the motel where Steve was staying. She spotted his bike in the parking lot and, spontaneously, took a sharp turn. It took four tries to find his actual door, but she could tell that he was surprised when he saw her standing on his—did motels have a doorstep?

"August," he said, mouth forming around her name slowly, "Did you need something?"

In about a nanosecond of time, August felt something she hadn't felt since she'd left that God awful building in the city. August felt the urge to play. She smiled.

"Can't a girl drop by the house of a _friend_?"

His eyes narrowed in that way in which she was now becoming intensely familiar. He was looking for some clue as to her objective, he was looking for the inclination to fight. August wasn't giving it to him. She cocked a hip and gestured wildly.

"Aren't you going to let me in? Not very courteous of you, lettin' me stand out here." She smiled up at him, showing just enough teeth that it wouldn't be considered predatory. August knew the difference.  
A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he stepped aside, "To what do I owe the honor?"

August glanced around the room, a poor representation of living quarters, "I was bored."

"I'm so happy I could relieve your boredom," Steve drawled as he closed the door.

Bending a little, August was about to sit on the bed but thought better of it. Places like this were overrun with germs and August had, had enough of living in grime. She straightened and circled the bed to glance in the bathroom. His toiletries were lined up in neat little rows upon the stained sink and she could see a fresh set of clothes sitting on top of the rim of the bathtub. He'd been about the shower, the image quite nice. August stored it away for a later date.

"How's motel life?"

Eyebrow lifting, Steve replied, "Awful."

"I bet," she said in a clipped tone, her analysis drawing upwards to the ceiling. There was some clear water damage and August was glad that the building was only a single story. Any sort of weight atop that kind of sagging would cause some serious fall through.

A few seconds passed and August was reminded of the strange feeling that had been shifting to different parts of her body all day. She remembered the markings on the tree and the howls throughout the night. Steve's reflexes, comparative to the darkness, would be slow, and she couldn't very well be expected to run between her house and the motel every time she felt a twinge of something out of the ordinary. The simple solution was mildly irritating, but solved many of her problems at once.

"You know what?" August burst out, jumping to land in a crouch on the mattress. "Pack your shit, you're coming with me."

Steve's jaw dropped damn near to the floor and August had to work to keep the smile off her face. She waited half a beat before sighing and jumping to her feet to stand mere inches from him.

"Pack. Your. Shit. Steve. I won't say it again."

His chin dipped down a little, eyes searching her face yet again for signs of deceit and mischief.

"Why?"

She sighed, "Don't need no reason, Captain. Do as I say so we can get out of his mud pit."

The paused held for another half a second and then he was pushing her gently to the side while he shoved his duffel full of clothing and amenities. August waited by the door, occasionally glancing out of the window. The sun was heading towards the edges of the horizon and she could feel that apprehension growing. It settled in her chest, mutating into different receptions of changes in the wavelengths around her.

After a moment, he was standing once more before her, duffel at the ready. August gave a sharp nod and turned to swing open the door and stride out into the parking lot towards the highway. From behind her, she heard a cough.

"What now?" August barked, spinning on her heel.

Steve shrugged a little, head tilting towards his bike.

Eyes widening, August shook her head, "Oh no. Nope. I don't even have a helmet."

"You can wear mine," Steve said with a laugh.

"Still not happening," she bit out, turning to walk a little further away.

"Really?" he called out, disbelieving. "Big bad August is scared of a motorcycle?"

Turning back to face him, August stomped the distance between them angrily. "Do you know how many people die on those things?"

His laughing face was expressive, far more joyful than she'd ever seen him. He was _laughing at her_, and it somehow made him look radiant, if a man could look radiant. August didn't like the way her thoughts were running, but couldn't really think of a way to stop them. She disliked the sentiment she felt for him, the disgruntling respect. And he was _still laughing at her._

"Come on," he teased lightly, "Live a little."

"I'm livin' right now and I'd like to continue livin', if you please."

Reaching over, he hefted the helmet into one palm and held it out to her, "I promise to drive slowly."

When she didn't take the helmet immediately, he inched forward and lifted it above her head, stopping briefly enough to give her time to say no. August met his challenging gaze, mouth pursed. The helmet slid over her hair and ears smoothly, just a little loose. Steve tightened the strap and patted her arm, leading her without touch to the bike and sitting astride. He waited until she had settled herself behind him to start the motor, then he reached back and grabbed her hands, wrapping them around his torso.

August was too focused on hanging on and not splattering her body all over the pavement to really appreciate the ride, even though she could tell Steve was driving a lot slower than he normally would. She clenched her fists into the material of his jacket, her thighs squeezing tightly around his hips and the bulk of the bike. To her credit, she didn't scream or make the smallest of sounds. Her breathing, however, couldn't be similarly controlled. August was heaving large gulps of air as they eased up the mountain to her house, the wind catching at her hair and lifting her pack from her body. She kept her gaze upon Steve's back, focusing on the stitching of his jacket and the occasional gleam of the leather in the sunlight.

And still, despite the adrenaline and the high anxiety, August could feel something else tingling around her body, absorbed but completely ambiguous. She felt it grow as they got closer to her home until it once again sat like a pit in her stomach. Her eyes finally lifted to scan the trees as they whizzed past, the movement too quick for her to really catch anything. Closing her eyes, August sent out a small bit of her own magical core, seeking the source. If she could recognize it now, she could destroy it and get on with her life. Sitting in paranoia really wasn't her strong suit.

Her core filtered around the bike, sensing Steve and the motor. It pulsed outwards, dropping along the trees as they passed and hopping down onto the trail to catch as the dirt. August sensed that there was something left behind by whatever had traveled the trails before, but there was no real strategy for it, no intentionality. The little pots of magic were sporadic and small, nothing that couldn't have been dropped accidentally by a passerby or blown outwards from a duel miles away. She drew her core back to her and sighed in frustration. She couldn't risk sending out a spell for apparitions as it would draw too much attention from both sides of the oncoming fight. August would have to either be patient, or do some real investigation, both of which weren't exactly on her list of favorite things to do.

Steve pulled to a soft stop in her driveway and August leapt off the bike quickly, pulling at the helmet. She ran a hand through her mussed hair and held it out to Steve, who took it with a smile.

"Wasn't so bad, right?"

August glared at him, "Shut up."

He rolled his eyes, "Can't you just admit that I was right?"

"No, not really," August replied, moving to the front door. She got about three feet away and stopped cold.

The door was open just slightly, the crack just wide enough that August could tell that there were no lights on in the front room. She stared at the darkness for a moment, then stepped forward and pressed her fingertips lightly to the door. It swung open easily, noiselessly. August could feel Steve standing beside her on the porch.

"Did you leave that open?"

"What do you think?"

"Right," he said, moving around her. August watched him ease into the room, muscles coiled and ready for a fight. She kept near his back, checking behind her every few seconds to maintain some kind of perimeter. They moved in tandem through the house, finding it empty. August closed the front door and pointedly turned the lock.

"I locked this before I left. I know I did."

Steve shook his head, "Do you know anyone who could have wanted to break in?"

August sent him a sardonic look, "There aren't neighbors for three miles in every direction, Captain. No one should really know that I'm here." She paused, "Except for Fury."

She could tell that Steve was processing this and slowly becoming more uncomfortable. What she couldn't tell was whether he was uncomfortable because he knew the agents would be there or whether he was uncomfortable because he didn't know they'd be there. Both options were distasteful.

"There weren't any," he began, breathing deeply, "plans for this."

August's jaw clicked shut and she approached him with long strides, "What were the plans?"

He swallowed, "To keep an eye on you and to try to convince you to come back. That's it, I swear."

"Then who broke in to my house?"

"I don't know," he answered and his expression was so sincere that August was tempted to believe him.

Turning very slightly to the side, she drew a small bit of magic from her core and sent it to the floor. The neon pink swirled a bit and settled, highlighting their footsteps throughout the house. She waved a hand and the two sets of steps disappeared, leaving another set in their wake. Kneeling down, August examined the footprint. It was thin, small, and surprisingly light, if her depth analysis could be trusted. They had moved quickly, sliding along the floorboards towards the fireplace. August followed them and examined the brick and mortar. Nothing appeared to have been touched, but she knew that the feeling she'd had all day was indicative of the invasion. The only question was the intentions of her uninvited guest.

"That's pretty handy," Steve breathed, crouching down to get his own look at the invader's prints.

August scoffed, "It's a parlor trick. Helpful, though, in these kinds of situations."

The path to the fireplace seemed to be the objective for the intruder. Nothing was taken and nothing near the area or the path seemed to have been disturbed. August couldn't find a single intent for the intruder to have focused on—she had nothing of value in the homes and little enough invested in the outside of the house to make it even remotely interesting to the nearest passerby. What, then, did they want?

Obviously needing something to do, Steve made his way across the room, "I'm going to have a look outside."

August let him go for the moment so that she could take a turn around the room and feel very carefully for magic. Aside from the footsteps, she couldn't see any other indication that anyone other than the familiar suspects had been in the room. She checked every possible solution: food, electronics (of which there were none), mugs, plates, and silverware. Everything was in its place, seemingly unmoved. Confused, August stepped out of the house and circled around to find Steve.

She spotted him in the far end of the yard, facing the forest with his hands on his hips. She stepped over fallen foliage and debris, making her way slowly to him. His eyes were assessing the tree line, mouth pouting ever so slightly. The full lower lip set outwards from the thinner upper, lending him an expression of deep thought. August followed his gaze, scanning the forest for any indication of a fresh trail.

"What do you see?"

Steve's indrawn breath was short, cut off, and held for a second before he replied, "Just a hunch."

"We don't kill things on a hunch, Captain."

His chin dropped and he stamped his foot a little, "Have to know where to look, first, August."

"Lookin' ain't seein'," August snapped. "My daddy used to tell me that."

He turned, glancing down at her from the foot and a half of height he had on her. August refused to return his look, keeping her eyes on the trees. Her gaze was unseeing, her focus on forgetting that she'd just given him a small piece of her history without even thinking about it. She was beginning to feel the first tingles of regret for inviting him to stay with her. Steve was so placid on the surface that she was often tempted to lob bits of things onto him just to see the ripples. In the future, she would need to control that impulse and only lob little bits of sharp sarcasm and jabs at his leashed mission. It would be safer that way.

The walk back to the house was short, the bugs beginning to swarm despite the fact that the heat was beginning to fade into fall. August swatted them away, reaching above the refrigerator to get the citronella candle.

"Close the door quickly. Don't want the bugs."

Steve pushed the door closed firmly, turning the lock with a kind of finality that had August pausing as she lit the candle. Covering her pause quickly, August set the wick aflame and placed the candle on the kitchen counter, turning it half a circle so that the label faced towards the living room. From there, she really didn't have anything to do with her hands, so she tugged at her hair, pulling it over her shoulder and loosely braiding the ends.

"So," Steve began, "Where do I set up?"

August nodded to the couch, "Over there. I don't really have anything fancy, but it's a lot cleaner than the motel."

"I'll say," Steve replied beneath his breath. "Thank you, by the way, for letting me stay up here."

Shrugging, August muttered, "I can keep an eye on you that way."

He turned from his task of setting his duffel on the floor, looking at her from over his shoulder, "I thought it was the other way around."

She smiled, "Surprise."

The movement to turn back to his duffel masked his smile, but August could tell it was there. She walked towards the fireplace, hand reaching out to the mantle.

"Do you want me to build a fire?"

He shook his head, "I'll be ok. Thanks."

"No problem."

August watched him unpack, his bed clothes set neatly at one end of the couch. With an internal prompt from her mother's continuous etiquette education, she turned and walked into her bedroom. There was a spare comforter at the end of her bed and an extra pillow. They weren't much, but at least they would be something if the night got cool. She hoisted them onto her hip and made her way back into the living room where Steve was shrugging off his jacket.

"Here," she said, holding out the blanket and pillow.

Steve took the proffered gifts without question, saying once more, "Thank you."

Nodding, August waved it away, "You don't have to keep thanking me."

He shrugged, "A little gratitude ever hurt anyone."

Having nothing to say in reply, August scratched at the back of her head and shuffled her feet a little, "Well, I guess I'll head off to bed."

Steve inhaled to speak, his sentence cut off by a howl in the distance. Immediately, they were both at attention, each turned in a different direction to look through a window. August approached the kitchen window, sensing Steve standing at the one in the living room. The pause in the night was punctuated by the sun finally sinking below the horizon, darkness falling fully over the yard and house. August touched her palm to the window, squinting out into the dark. Her breath was hollow in the back of her throat, doing nothing for the apprehension in her stomach. August braced her feet shoulder width apart and waited.

The floor creaked beneath Steve's weight as he shifted, trying to get a better look. The air was eerily still, sitting heavily between them as they watched and waited in the darkness with only the citronella candle flickering in the room. August hadn't yet been able to get floor lamps and the room was bathed in as much darkness as the yard. She made an urgent mental note that she would buy some the next day.

"Wolf?" Steve questioned quietly.

August shook her head minutely, "Not like that. They don't sound like that."

The howl was inhuman, otherworldly, evil. August knew those kinds of howls that pierced dark nights and human souls. They sounded the herald of death in the deepest, darkest magic. This was no wolf. The sound rose again, this time closer. August stepped away from the window, motioning Steve towards her.

"Get away from the window," she whispered. Another howl, closer.

Steve moved to stand between her and the door, "What do we do?"

"Nothing," August said. "There's nothing we can do, if we're the intended victims."

His head whipped around so quickly that August thought the vertebrae might snap. "What do you mean, _nothing_?"

Brows knitting together, August answered, "Those are hellhounds, Captain. There's no defense against them. Not really."

The howls moved closer and August breathed deeply, readying herself for the inevitable. She could deal with death, she thought. It was unfortunate that Steve was caught up in this, that the target on her back had been extended to him. She wished she could offer some kind of comfort, but there wouldn't be enough time and August had never learned how to do that sort of thing properly. Touching his arm, August gave him what little she could.

The front door jarred, hit by something heavy. Lock holding, it shook against the frame. August involuntarily stepped back and away, her jaw tightening. Steve remained in place.

"You don't have a spell for this?"

Indeed, she did have a protection spell that would hold, but she was unwilling to trap them in the middle of the house for the rest of eternity. The hounds would wait them out, starve them, erode their resolve. They had eternity after all.

"Wouldn't work," August replied. "Not really."

His breath hissed through his teeth, "You keep saying 'not really'. What does that mean?"

"Band aids, Captain. They'd only be band aids."

"The hell does that mean, August," he yelled, turning away from the door, his eyes blazing fire.

She lifted her brows, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth, "They'd only find another way in."

That was the absolute truth. Hell hounds were notorious for being unrelenting in pursuit of their prey and it was very clear that August and Steve were both on the menu that night. She winced as the door took another hit, the living room window fogging with the breath of unseen things. Steve kept glancing around, trying to catch bits of information and process it.

Before she could reach up once more in an effort to comfort, the banging on the door stopped cold, leaving in its wake a kind of gut wrenching silence. Four breaths passed… five. Nothing moved, not either of their bodies, the door, or the air around the house. Eventually, August couldn't take it any longer and she sidestepped Steve to look once more out of the kitchen window. All was quiet, as if monsters from the bowels of the literal Hell hadn't been banging on their door. She dropped her head to the glass and sighed.

"They're fucking with us."

"Who?"

She shrugged, "No idea."

He stepped forward, "August, come back with me. We can figure this out."

Baring her teeth, she said, "Absolutely not. This is my house and don't nobody fuck with me in my house."

He ran his palm over his forehead. "I have to call this in. I have to tell them. We need back up."

"Call whoever you want, Captain. But keep 'em out of my house."

They went to sleep that night with tension between them, which really wasn't all that unusual. August's dreams were hazy, a long hallway with overhead lights seeming to stretch on forever. She didn't step forward, just looked on into eternity.

**I should probably let everyone know that this is the slowest burn I have ever written. I currently have 12 chapters drafted and I'm only around two thirds of the way through the story. Get strapped in, we're in for the long haul. **


	4. Chapter 4

**I must admit, there are things about this chapter that I really like. There are also things that make me want to tear my hair out. **

If Captain Rogers had called in the event with the hell hounds into his superiors, there was no evidence of it over the next few days. Nothing and no one passed through her property and there were no further howls in the night. She bought enough floor lamps to light both the bedroom and the living room, making sure that she bought extra bulbs. The shadows would have nowhere to hide in her house, if she could help it. Steve watched her set them up in between bouts of his own trips to town, probably to check in with Fury.

On her next day off, August leaned against the counter with a cup of hot tea, making a decision. She wouldn't use magic to guard the house, couldn't risk drawing the oncoming darkness towards her with the power burst. But, there were other ways to protect and bind. She would have to make her way into the forest.

After finishing her tea, August set the mug in the sink and headed out to the back yard where Steve was once again staring at the trees. She walked up to stand beside him, tilting her head to the side.

"If we had neighbors, they'd think you were a bit touched."

He didn't say anything for a minute, then, "There's something out there."

"I know," August replied genially. "It'll come eventually."

Nodding, he said, "But will we be ready for it."

Smiling, August taunted, "I've got a plan, if you want to hear it."

Turning, Steve folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her with a brow raised, "I'm listening."

She narrowed her eyes, "You don't look very excited to hear my plan."

With a long suffering sigh, Steve plastered a smile on his face that made August laughed loudly in surprise. She cackled towards the ground, waving one arm wildly as she tried to catch her breath.

"You are so bad at that," she gasped.

Another sigh, "Can you just tell me the plan?"

"Alright, alright, alright," August wheezed, pressing her hand to her chest. "My word, I need to get a picture of that. I'll hang it in the kitchen."

His expression was exasperated, "Can we just get on with the telling of the plan now?"

"Touchy," she replied, giving him a shoulder coyly. "Alright, boy scout, hold on to your shirt. Let's just say there's more than one way to skin a cat. I'm heading out into the woods today to gather some herbs. We'll light a few to scrub the house and then we'll bury a lot 'em to create a protective barrier."

Face blank, Steve said, "That's your plan. Gardening?"

Rolling her eyes, August stepped back and away towards the house, "Not gardening. Ancient protective measures. Like planting rosemary by the front gate to keep unwanted visitors away."

Following her to the house, Steve was skeptical. "I don't get how that's going to help."

August gathered up a pair of scissors and a bucket, cocking out one hip, "Of course you don't. Never had to defend yourself with nothin' have you?"

His response was terse, "You don't know anything about me."

She smiled widely, "Steve Rogers, born July 4, 1922 to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. Hometown: Brooklyn. Picked up by the US Army and injected with a serum to create—quote, the ultimate super soldier, end quote. Hobbies include baseball and illustration. You're quite good, by the way. Psychoanalysis report states mild depression and loneliness." August paused, "Stop when I miss something, Captain."

Steve was silent far longer than she expected, the faint twitch in the muscle of his jaw the only discernible movement.

"You read my file."

August shrugged, "I read everyone's file. Call me curious."

His fists clenched, "That's classified information."

"Then they should have kept a better eye on it," she barked. "Not everyone is as harmless as I am."

Steve sneered, "You're not harmless. Not one person in SHIELD thinks of you as harmless."

"Good to know," August replied lowly.

They stood like that, staring each other down until August shoved from her place against the counter and headed for the door. She turned, swinging the bucket at her thighs, to give as apologetic a look as she could give when she really wasn't feeling in the least bit sorry.

"I'm going to pick flowers. Do you want to come?"

At first, August thought he would refuse and sulk for a few hours while he digested that she probably knew a lot more than she should about how he came to be the soldier he was today. But, then again, he'd surprised her before and he certainly wasn't going to quit now.

"Okay," he said, running his palm over his forehead. "Lead the way."

The forest was humid, dewy, and cooling in the falling temperatures. August swung the bucket in her hands as she walked deeper, winding around and under branches as she made her way out to a patch of overgrown weeds. Steve followed in relative silence, the sound of his feet crunching in the dry leaves keeping August apprised of his location. She ducked down low, walking in a crouch to slide effortlessly into a round patch of clear land. Rising, she held a hand over her eyes and took stock of the growth.

"We had a wet summer," she said. "Good pickin's."

Steve levered himself up and over the fallen log, landing next to her heavily. "What are we picking?"

"A little of this and that," August replied vaguely, leaning down to touch a few broad green leaves. "I figure broad spectrum protection will be the best bet until we can narrow it down a bit."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"Of course it is," she quipped, dropping to sit in the grass. "Pop a squat, Cap."

He followed the directive, sitting cross legged next to her. "I don't understand what plants are going to do to protect us."

August snorted, "That's because you don't understand elemental magic. The earth is just as much a force for magic as my power. Just have to know how to use it."

He watched intently as she sifted through the buds to find what she wanted, careful not to damage the plants. August dropped a handful of flowers into the bucket, pausing briefly to look at Steve. "You don't believe me."

He shrugged, "I don't know."

"Ah come on now," August teased. "I've seen you leap before you look, before."

With a roll to his eyes, he replied, "Yes, but there is generally a ledge to leap onto."

August considered it. "Yeah, you're probably right about that. Makes it exciting, though, not have a ledge. Ya think?"

His expression was decidedly not amused, "Exciting isn't the word I would use."

She smiled up at him, "Of course not." Then, "What word would you use?"

His silence was companionable while August worked a stubborn patch of sage from the ground. It would have to be dried, but a small amount was all she needed. Some far off part of her mind wondered that this little patch of herbs and flowers had grown so readily near her home. But, with little interest other than using said patch, August decided not to question it. She was just lucky she happened upon it while walking home one day.

A short intake a breath drew her attention from her thoughts. Steve appeared to finally have an answer.

"Whimsical," he announced.

August rolled the word over her tongue a few times. Her eyes squinting in confusion.

"I don't think anyone has ever referred to anything I have done as whimsical."

Steve fiddled with an errant blade of tall grass, "Guess they weren't looking close enough."

She leaned back, checking the contents of the bucket, "Looks like we're done for now. Might have to come back."

Steve rose gracefully to standing, offering her a hand. August thought about rejecting it, but, unwilling to act rudely, she grasped his fingers and allowed him to pull her to standing. Before she could right herself, he had grabbed the bucket and was ten feet along the path ahead of her. With a few hop-skips, August caught up.

"Whimsical, huh?"

He shot her a sideways glance, "Yes."

Her mouth twisted, "Got an elaboration for me?"

Their steps were tandem, but August had to stretch her legs to keep up with his longer stride. She inferred that he was shortening his own so that she could keep up. They were halfway to the house when he finally answered.

"No."

Brows rising, August very nearly whined, "Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not an answer."

"Too bad."

August lapsed into silence until they reached the house, alternating between intense curiosity and frustration. It hadn't been a lie that no one had described her as such before. The adjectives in her file were generally more pejorative. The outlier made her want to understand what he thought about her and why-an even stranger aberration. August simply didn't care what other people thought. That had been a major theme in the arc of her life. To suddenly care confused her deeply. She wanted it to stop-she would make it stop.

Once inside, August filled the sink with water and set about washing the excess dirt off the contents of the bucket. Helpfully, Steve laid out a towel, taking the damp herbs and flowers from her. August was easy with them, making sure that the roots were still intact and that the buds weren't ripped from the stems. When she was done, the sink was cloudy with dirt and she had to reach blindly down into the drain to pull the plug.

Fingers sliding around the bottom of the sink, August's attention slipped away from the plug to the man standing beside her. He was, she discovered, rather good at not saying anything. She had pegged him for the strong, silent type—brooding like some kind of red white and blue Batman. It did, however, surprise her that he would actively use silence to make a point. He mirrored her own silence on the myriad of subjects they tip toed across in their daily conversations. August found herself retreating more often than not into her bedroom at ungodly early hours in the evening just so the imaginary conversations wouldn't occur. She supposed she was being childish, but part of her thought that she had every right to be, given that her adolescence was spent in the dark.

As she gripped the plug in the depths of the sink, August's wrist was wrapped in something the felt like mucus. It wound around her skin so quickly and so tightly that she had no time to react before she was being pulled forward into the sink. Elbow bending to accommodate the motion, August let out a yelp and shoved her free hand around her forearm in an attempt to loosen it.

Steve froze, his hands hovering above the bundles of flowers, "Stop playing."

August glared up at him, yanking on her own arm until she felt the cartilage in her wrist pop, "Not fucking playin'."

Bracing both feet, August leaned down on the counter, trying to get leverage. She managed to jostle the plug a little, letting some of the water out of the sink. With a heave, August lifted her wrist over the surface, the inky entity still attached. She made a sound of disgust, wincing as it tightened its grip.

"Christ," Steve breathed, his hands wrapping around her fingers to help pull against the thing yanking at her.

The water continued to drain and, seeming to sense its own exposure, the entity retreated down into the drain. August shook off Steve's hands, pulling up the plug and holding it in the air as she glared down the empty drain. Only darkness greeted her, no hint of the thing that had surprised her with its attack.

"What the hell?" She huffed, realizing that she was breathing hard and that her heart was beating staccato in her chest.

"Never seen that before," Steve murmured, his gaze narrowed.

"No shit," August replied.

She continued to look for a few more seconds before lifting her eyes to Steve. He was leaned over the sink, palms pressed to the edge, head bowed. He was also less than a foot away from her. She noted the strong profile, the fall of hair over his brow that was somehow reflecting an unrealistic shade of gold. He really was incredibly attractive despite the misplaced nobility and irritating tendency to follow orders. August internally sighed—still not for her.

Leaning away so that she could have her own personal space, August tossed her hair behind her shoulders, "Well, that was fun."

"Yeah," Steve drawled, "Let's not do that again."

She smiled, "For once, we agree completely."

He paused a beat, "So, what do we do about that?"

August shrugged, "You know, I'm not a plumber, but I think we probably need to clean the pipes."

His expression was sardonic, "And how do we do that?"

"Stew, probably."

There was a long beat of silence where August refused to meet his gaze, her eyes stalling for time on the empty sink. She tapped the nail of one finger on the metallic rim, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. The feeling of the slime was still fresh on her skin, leaving her wanting to dunk the offended appendage in bleach. She settled for reflexive curling her fingers into her palm.

"What kind of stew?"

August's brows lifted, "Ah, an herbal one?"

"Okay."

Just like that, he was accepting her plan and willing to go forward. August tilted away from him, her eyes narrowing in confusion and suspicion. The plan was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And here he was, talking about it calmly. Yet another new experience for August.

"Get your coat," she announced. "We're going shopping."

Steve insisted that they ride the bike out to the store, claiming that they needed to move quickly with their plan. August continued to be reluctant, but the fear of more dark entities infiltrating her house was strong and it overrode her need to walk the trail. Her fingers were cramped with the force of her grip on Steve's coat by the time they reached the small market, but they arrived alive.

Strolling through the aisles next to Steve pushing a shopping buggy was almost as surreal as having her hand yanked by evil slime. They passed people she vaguely recognized as fellow citizens of the city, giving little nods of acknowledgment but saying nothing. August led them to the tea aisle, throwing boxes haphazardly into the cart before moving on to the herbs and spices. They weren't as fresh as the ones drying in her kitchen, but she didn't think they had time to find a farmer's market. On the way to the register, she reached over and nabbed a pack of Oreos.

"What?" she said, noting Steve's stare.

"Nothing," came the innocent reply.

"Okay then."

When the cashier rang up their items, Steve pushed past her to slide a sleek black card through the credit card machine. August raised a brow, but didn't comment. She was okay with Shield picking up the tab once in a while.

The ride back to her house was, characteristically, gripped with fear and anxiety. August hopped off the bike quickly, hauling the bags into the house and laying out the contents. Reaching into the cabinets, she pulled out a large aluminum pot, filled it with water, and set it atop one of the burners, turning the heat on high. While she waited for the water to boil, August yanked out the tea bags from their boxes and threw them one by one into the pot. She followed with a few of the fresh herbs and flower buds, using an old wooden spoon to stir.

Steve loomed behind her, watching from a distance as she yanked leaves and herbs apart to sprinkle them inside. She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle with the attention, unsure if he was curious or confused. Odds were, it was a mix of both.

"C'mere," she muttered, waving with one hand.

He approached and she handed him the spoon.

"Stir constantly. Don't stop 'til it boils."

August oversaw the process for a moment, then turned and leaned out of the kitchen door, grabbing a handful of dirt. Closing the door, August skipped back over to the stove and dashed the dirt into the pot.

"I take it we're not eating the stew?"

August shrugged, "Little dirt never hurt nobody. But, no, we're not eating the stew."

After a minute, the water boiled, oddly scented steam rising in a swirling mass over the pot. August craned her neck to check the contents, inhaling delicately. It smelled about right.

"Turn off the heat."

Steve flicked the knob, saying, "What now?"

"We pour it down the drain," August answered plainly, wrapping a towel around the handles and hauling up the pot. She angled it towards the sink, hesitating as she peered into the drain.

"That's it?" Steve asked, hands slipping to his hips.

"Ah, yeah. I think." She began to slowly pour the stew into the drain, careful not to spill.

He scoffed, "You think?"

Brows furrowed, August tried to focus on her task, "Yeah, well, I don't have a lot of experience with slime monsters. This should clean them out, though."

Tilting the pot all the way over the sink, August watched as the last of the stew fell down into the drain. It glugged through the pipes for a moment until it washed all the way down. She set the pot to the side and waited, eyes on the sink.

"How will we know if it worked?"

August continued to wait, saying nothing. She braced her palms onto the sink and leaned over the drain, trying to get a closer look into the darkness. There was a half second sound of a growl, not nearly enough for her to react, and then the sink back splashed slime and stew into her face. August squeezed her mouth and eyes shut, shoulders rising towards her neck as the muck slid down from her face back into the sink. Disgusted, she wiped as her skin, trying to clear her vision.

"I'd say it worked."

Next to her, Steve was doubled over laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. August gritted her teeth to keep from knocking him to the floor. Hands held aloft, she didn't want to think about what was bathing her face, neck, chest, and palms. She just wanted to get clean immediately. Turning on the taps, she scrubbed at the muck furiously, working up into her hair and over her arms. When her upper body was pretty much soaked, August turned off the water and turned to glare at a red faced Steve.

"I hate you."

He wheezed, "Don't care. Still laughing."

She rolled one shoulder, tempted to go ahead and hit him. Her fist curled into a little angry ball, but the thought petered out almost immediately. This, she realized, was going to be a rare moment of happiness for him. She would let him have it, for now.

"I'm taking a bath. Do the dishes, will ya? And don't let our pickin's get wet. We need them dry."

August stripped completely naked as soon as the bedroom door closed behind her. She flung the wet mess into a pile on the floor for washing in the creek later. Stepping into the bathroom, August turned on the hot water and pressed the plug into the drain. As the tub filled, August checked her face in the mirror. Skin damp, she looked a wreck. It would take some serious work to get the smell off her body, but she had bought the industrial soap in preparation for this kind of situation.

Water still running, August dropped into the tub and settled against the side. She stretched out her legs a little, holding her big toe underneath the spray and watching as the water ran over the arch of her foot. When the surface of the water covered her up to her breasts, August leaned forward and turned the knobs. Sinking down into the heat of the water, August turned to her side and pulled her knees to her chest.

She lay there for a little while, just letting the warmth soak into her bones, and then she set to work. Soap was rubbed on every inch of her skin, in every fold and every bed. She cleaned herself three times before she actually felt clean enough to work on her hair. The shampoo lathered in a fluff of bubbly soap. August worked it into her scalp, paying special attention to her hairline and the section behind her ears where she still felt grimy. Dunking down, she swished the water through her hair to rinse.

Staring at the ceiling, August pulled her hair behind her back and simply lay for a moment. The attacks were slightly left of center, strange enough that she couldn't quite pinpoint where the source could possibly be. Hell hounds indicated demonic influence while slime monsters indicated… a warped sense of humor, if she had ever seen one. Demons simply didn't do goop and goop wouldn't have the wherewithal, let alone the intelligence, to command hell hounds.

Rising, August pulled the excess water from her hair and shoved upwards, stepping out of the tub. Using a towel, she rubbed her damp skin, wrapping it around her chest as she walked back into her bedroom. Slipping into a t shirt and a pair of sleeping shorts, August ran the towel over her damp hair to catch the moisture. Throwing it to the side, she roughly ran through a tangle of knots in her hair, pulling it away from her face to form some semblance of decorum. On her way back out to the living room, August caught her face in the small mirror over her dresser.

She looked about twelve years old, her body enveloped completely in the shirt and her face clean. Leaning down, August examined herself. Her eyes were wide and almond shaped, the color murky. Her cheekbones were high, a nod to her grandfather's Cherokee heritage. Her lips were full. She pulled them into a pout, wondering if the pink color was from the bath or was natural. August had never really took the time to notice before. Jerking backwards, she held her hands in front of her body and shook her head. What did she care that she looked like a preadolescent child?

With another full body shake, August pushed her hair back behind her shoulders and opened the door, stepping out into the living room. Steve had taken the liberty of mopping up the mess while she bathed, the tiles in the kitchen still shining. She thought she might thank him, but the image of him doubled over laughed was still fresh and she figured this would act as penance. August would not punch him in his perfect jaw. She'd let that one go.

"Any resurgences of our little slimer?"

Steve shook his head, "Looks like you got him."

"Good," she chirped. "Serves him right, barging into houses uninvited. Very rude."

"Agreed."

August tilted her head to the side, "That's a record. We agreed twice in one day."

Steve laughed a little, "Let's not make that a habit."

"I can't agree with you again, Steve," August said with a smile, "That would indicate that we were developing a pattern."

There was a strange light behind his eyes as he said, "Wouldn't want that."

And then it was awkward. August didn't have a follow up and Steve seemed disinclined to offer up new conversation. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth, eyes dropping to the towel on which their herbs were placed.

"You let it get wet," she squealed. "I told you not to."

She heard Steve sigh, "I did not 'let it' get wet. It's from when the sink attacked you."

August swatted at his hands as he tried to rearrange the towel, "No touching."

There wasn't a lot of damage, just the end closest to the sink. She sighed in relief, not willing to go out again to restock their supply. The sun was going down and, until they set up the perimeter, she wasn't setting foot outside after dark. August had better sense than that.

"Okay, these are still usable."

"Go figure," Came Steve's sarcastic response.

"Don't get smart with me, mister. We can't take chances with this stuff. One wrong mixture and its straight to hell with us."

He looked skeptical, "Is this really going to work?"

Annoyed, she retorted, "Don't be so closed minded."

Steve huffed, "I'm not being closed minded. Did you see the things literally beating down the door?"

"Uh, I was standing right there," she pointed to a spot not far away. "Of course I saw them."

He dismissed her gesture, "And do you know what they're capable of?"

"Fuck yes, I do," August sneered. "What do you think kept us in our cells at night?"

There was a long enough pause that August knew her admission had hit some kind of spot inside Steve that triggered sympathy. His eyes softened and his jaw, which had begun to clench, loosened.

She sighed deeply, suddenly very tired, "You're going to have to trust that I know what I'm talking about."

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

August dropped her eyes, "Don't worry about it. Just stop arguing with my plans."

"I'm sorry."

Aggravated, she shot out, "And stop apologizing."

She could tell that his first instinct was, yet again, to apologize, but one look from her glaring face stopped him cold. He raised both hands, palms out, and retreated from her a few steps.

"How are we moving forward?"

August ran her hands over the towel lightly, "Let these dry overnight. After I get back from work tomorrow, we set up the perimeter."

"Anything I need to do before you get back?"

"Yeah," August said, "Don't touch them."

Eyebrows raised, Steve drawled a long 'okay' before moving to sit on the couch. August turned from him, watching the sun finally drop to brush the tree line. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned a hip against the counter. Her bare feet were cold against the floor, but she didn't want to move. August was going to guard her home as she had guarded herself in prison, as she had guarded her talent as a young child. As much as she was tired of fighting, August would go to war one more time to keep the last piece of her history alive and safe. God help her enemies.

**I imagine she ends her little reverie with a curt, firm nod. But, it didn't make sense to put it at the end of the paragraph. **

**Let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I consider this kind of a slow chapter, but I think there is some character development here that is necessary. August has to begin the slow path to maturing into an adult after having been stunted by her prison sentence.**

The bookstore was quiet when August shoved through the front door, her pack slung over one shoulder. Steve was still asleep when she left home and her morning, thus far, had been spent in silence. It looked like that silence would continue on for a little while longer. August tossed her pack onto the front desk next to the register and headed for the break room to make some coffee. As she waited for the pot to percolate, August thought about her next move.

She and Steve had planted the herbs around the house at strategic points of entry and anywhere August thought that there might be some kind of weak spot. Steve continued to be dubious about the effectiveness of her plan, but remained silent. He dutifully helped her to dig in the packed dirt with a small shovel, handing her each packet she'd tied to together and piling the earth back into place. Since then, the house had been quiet. For a week, there was nothing save for the occasional draft wafting through the rooms. It set her teeth on edge. August wanted action.

The bell above the front door chimed. August leaned as far back as she could without actually shifting her feet to see Mr. Jones walking around the front desk. He was carrying the newspaper, having walked the half block to the store to pick up the latest copy. She saw him sit down and open it, holding it in the air as he read.

The coffee finished brewing and August poured herself a cup, holding it close to soak the warmth into her cold hands. She would have to pick up a pair of gloves if she was going to keep walking from the house into town. The woods would be unforgiving of her skin when the winter frost came in. She could probably get a cheap pair to last the few months of cold and might invest in a sturdier pair next year. Part of her was loath to make any kind of real investment in anything other than the house. The threat against her, a seemingly constant variable despite her seclusion, would have to be dealt with first. And then the next. And the next. Until either she was dead or she'd figured out how to go off the grid, magically speaking.

Stepping out onto the main floor, August approached Mr. Jones cautiously. He was rather grouchy in the mornings and didn't take to having his newspaper reading interrupted unnecessarily. She set the cup down and eased into the lone chair opposite him, picking up one of the new magazines and thumbing through it absently.

The paper scraped against itself as Mr. Jones turned the page, "You're early."

August sipped at the coffee, "Not by much."

"Been early a lot lately," he continued.

She shrugged, "Better early than late."

She might have seen him nod if the paper hadn't been between them. "This have anything to do with that boy you took in?"

August hummed noncommittally, her jaw tightening even as she worked to school her expression.

Mr. Jones turned a page, "There's talk in town. Motorcycle, leather jacket, was stayin' in the motel before you came and got him. No family. No connections. Just breezed into town one day."

She smiled, knowing that gossip did indeed travel fast in this kind of town—a regional pass time with Olympic level skill. A man and a woman living together without being married was still a little taboo, but etiquette dictated that to approach the subject would be considered rude. Mr. Jones seemed to have no qualms with ignoring the rules of propriety that morning.

"He's an old friend," August allowed, scanning the horoscopes section.

The paper dropped and Mr. Jones leaned forward, "How old?"

August, too, leaned forward, "At least ninety."

There was a beat of silence, then Mr. Jones laughed, the lines around his eyes deepening. When he calmed, he said, "It was a serious question."

"It was a serious answer," August replied, with just the slightest swivel of attitude in the turn of her neck.

He folded the paper neatly and set it aside, "Shoot straight with me, kid. Is he doing well by you?"

August might have laughed if Mr. Jones' face hadn't been so concerned. She settled for nodding, saying, "I think he's a bit scared of me."

"Good," Mr. Jones replied with finality. "Now, come look at these new orders we got in. The local book club has ordered some kind of trilogy and all I've heard for the last week has been about 'Fifty Shades.' I'm up to here with telephones ringin'."

August slid out of the chair and moved to follow, something in her periphery catching her eye. One of the books from the World History section had lifted off the shelf and was floating in midair. August made a grab for it, tucking the tome beneath her arm. By the time she'd secured the first book, another was roving between philosophy and cultural studies. With a hop skip, August caught that one, too, and squeezed it next to the other. In the hundred feet from the front desk to the back room, August gathered three more flying books and one toy train aimed at Mr. Jones' head.

Mr. Jones, for his part, was either oblivious to the goings on not ten feet behind him, or was ignoring the happenings altogether. Either way, August was glad not to have to explain why suddenly objects were moving about her place of work. She set the books on a low table with the toy and quickly fell into step so that when Mr. Jones turned to show her the new order, he wouldn't know that she'd been dancing around the aisles grabbing at the air for the last thirty seconds or so.

"I'm going to wait until these are tagged and priced before I call these gals. I'll need it done before lunch, though. They'll stop in on their breaks for sure."

August nodded, "Not a problem."

"Okay then. Get to work."

And she did. Boxes were opened, books were stacked, labeled, priced, and wrapped per each individual order from the club. It seemed that there were at least fifteen ladies waiting for this set of books and August, admittedly, was curious. She scanned the first few pages before skipping to the middle. Eyes widening, she slammed the book closed and set it down, pacing several steps away. When had book clubs gotten so racy? Gingerly, August tucked the last of the books into little bags and began the process of hauling them out to the front for pick up.

"All done," she announced, her hands on her hips.

Mr. Jones glanced at the bags and then at his watch. "Well, go take your lunch. These'll be gone by the time you get back."

August nodded, refraining from making any further comment about the books and risk Mr. Jones getting curious. She wasn't sure his heart could handle the shock. Stepping out onto the rapidly filling sidewalk, August shivered against the chill. The rising sun hadn't yet burned off the dew and the extra moisture in the air made the lower temperature piercing. She toddled off to the diner, knowing that the five dollars in her pocket would cover a burger and fries.

About a block away, she heard the familiar purr of a motorcycle engine. Glancing down the highway, August saw Steve zooming into the diner parking lot and settling into an empty space. August stood by the door and waited, catching his gaze warily.

"What brings you to town?" She asked when he was within hearing distance.

Steve smiled, "Missed you at breakfast. Thought we could talk over lunch."

Brow winging up, August replied, "What happened?"

Looking apprehensive, Steve opened the diner door and ushered her inside, "Let's order first."

They were seated in a small booth near the back of the room, their drink orders taken briskly before being left alone. August folded her arms on the table and waited patiently for Steve to do some explaining.

"So," she prompted.

Steve accepted the cup of coffee from the waitress and August impatiently sipped at her water while he poured cream and sugar into it, mixing with a dull spoon.

"So, how's work?"

The straw popped from between her lips, "We're not talking about work. We're talking about what brought you down here."

Steve leaned back into the cushion of the booth and spun the mug between his fingers, "We, ah, had a visitor."

Her eyes narrowed, "What kind of visitor?"

"The evil kind, I think."

Chewing on her lip, August asked, "What makes you think that?"

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, Steve pulled out his phone and ran his finger over the screen. He turned it so that she could see the picture he'd pulled up. Someone had left a mutilated deer carcass on her front lawn. Lip curling, August sneered at it.

"That is so unsanitary."

His mouth quirked upwards, "Someone left a decaying dead animal in your front yard and your only comment is that it's unsanitary?"

She shrugged, "Well, it is."

Shoving the phone back into his jacket, Steve said, "You aren't concerned at all that someone is leaving you morbid gifts."

Again, August shrugged, "Wouldn't be the first time."

His eyes narrowed for a moment, but they were interrupted by the waitress. She took their orders, casting both of them a rather intrusive gaze that August was more than used to by then. The waitress was ignored until she walked away, August's attention focused on Steve. There had to be more to it than just a decomposing body at their door. He looked far too anxious for something so small.

"Anything else I need to know?"

Blue eyes that cast in a grey tone due to the cloudy weather, flicked to the side, one hand tapping on the table between them. August tilted her head to the side, giving a half hearted gesture for haste.

"Nothing… tangible."

August scoffed, knowing what he meant and suddenly finding herself impatient, "This shit is gonna keep happening, Cap. I'm a paranormal powerhouse and, unfortunately, I attract the strange and weird."

He looked skeptical, stirring his coffee absently and looking out the window next to their booth. August had half a notion to comfort him in some way, her hands gripping her biceps to keep still. She couldn't coddle at this point. They had far too much to do and to deal with for her to spend time helping Steve work through his feelings and discomfort with the supernatural.

"If you want to head home," August began, leaving the rest hanging in the air.

Steve's expression flinched and turned fierce in the blink of an eye, the fingers around his mug tightening until she heard the ceramic groan. He immediately released it and laid both palms on either side of the glass. August crossed her legs, interested in his reaction and what he had to say next.

"I'm not going anywhere," he muttered. "I'm sticking this through."

"Fine," August shot back, lifting from the table when the waitress placed her food in front of her. "Then get used to feeling like someone's watching you all the time. Get used to odd things happening."

"I will," Steve replied with such finality that August tended to believe him.

She knew, however, that it took much more than sheer will and determination to beat the creatures of the night. They wore you down, playing on your weaknesses until there was nothing from shivering fear and psychosis as layers of humanity were peeled away. She knew how deeply the knives of their inner workings could dig, knew how far they would go to get their kill.

They finished their meal, talking mostly about the coming winter and the plans they needed to make to weatherproof the house. The roof needed tending to and there were some drafts that needed to be addressed. August was impressed that Steve was already working on things, taking the lead on the project without having to be asked. She'd be damned if she'd admit it, but without him, she would have a hell of season on her hands.

When the waitress brought their check, Steve plucked it out of her hands and returned it with a folded bill before August could speak. She didn't make a scene, didn't demure to modesty. If he wanted to pay for her meal, she was okay with that. The kept her eyes on the table as the waitress handed back their change.

"It so nice to see newlyweds 'round these parts," she said as she dropped the bills into Steve's hand.

When Steve made to correct her, August cleared her throat loudly and thanked the waitress with a smile. He looked at her with a raised brow.

"It's better if they thing we're together," August explained, watching the waitress lean over the counter to speak to her coworker.

"Why?"

She shook her head, "Rule of the South. Better that they wrongly think we're together than to think we're living in sin. We'd draw a lot of attention that way."

He laughed, "That's ridiculous."

"That's life down here, Cap." Glancing at the clock, she followed up with, "I gotta go. Lunch hour is over. Thanks for the meal."

They walked out together, Steve at her back. August went as far as his motorcycle, slowing for a moment. She glanced back at him, wondering if he really was all gentlemanly manners, yes ma'am, and order taking. August hadn't seen anything to tell her differently, save for the apparent stubborn streak that kept him holed up in the Appalachian mountains with a half- crazed ex prisoner.

"I'll be home before dinner. Try not to destroy the house while I'm gone."

Steve smiled blindingly, a whole two hundred watts of handsome boyishness. "I'll do what I can."

Without another word, August trudged back to work, thinking about the deer in her yard and what it could possibly mean for them. Clearly, it was a message, but she had no clue as to the content. There were a lot things that could be said by mutilation, the first of which was a flashing sign of danger. But, whoever was sending the message had to know that August did not, in fact, scare that easily. She had a ferocious constitution and could outstand just about anything. What were they trying to tell her, instead? What did a deer symbolize? And why cut it open and pull out the innards to display?

As she walked into the bookstore, August absently caught another flying book as it headed for the children's section, laying it atop one of the low shelves. She moved without thought to the only section in the store that might give her some answers. Sitting on one of the step stools, August perused the spirituality section until she found a tome on paganism. Flipping through it, she found nothing. If anything a pagan would abhor slicing and dicing a deer—the rule of three and all that.

With a sigh, August moved on pulling books here and there, coming up short on many levels. An even deeper sigh flowing through her lungs, August leaned back against the stacks and stared at the ceiling. Above her, one of the chairs used for children floated innocently from side to side. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Eventually, Mr. Jones was going to notice something. It didn't matter than he spent most of his time in the back room sorting through their orders and checking inventory. Something would need to be done.

Standing, August pulled the chair down and set it in its place. She then moved to the four corners of the store, drawing a discreet glyph that would repel unwanted magic and spells. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now. Anything stronger, and August risked bringing dark magic towards the store and she really didn't want to come to work one day and find a doorway to hell in the romance section. It would really keep the customers away.

August tarried about the store, dusting the shelves and making sure that the books were in the right section for a few hours until Mr. Jones sent her home with a Tupperware container filled with left over soup. His wife had, again, made too much. She thanked him and carefully folded the bowl between her arms as she headed back out into the streets. August was mostly ignored by the public at large, but she could feel the occasional glance as she walked along the sidewalk. They were curious, her new guest having made an unfortunate showing at the diner. She didn't begrudge them their gossip, but she hoped no one showed up with a casserole. August wouldn't be held responsible for more slime monster attacking a well meaning, but nosy, church lady on her front porch step.

The path was wide enough that August didn't have to step over much as she climbed the mountain home. She held the Tupperware to her stomach, feeling the liquid slosh, with each step. Mr. Jones seemed to think that she was starving up there in her little house on the mountain. At the very least, his wife thought she was starving. Sure, she had to ration her food, but Steve sometimes came home with groceries bought with the company card and whenever August thought she might miss a meal, she'd lift something from the gas station.

A sound caught August's attention, stopping her cold. Her arms tightened around the bowl resting against her abdomen as she focused her awareness on the woods on either side of her. Wind blew through the trees, leaves brushing against one another. Nothing more. Feeling her adrenaline spike, August started once more around the bend, catching a small glimpse of her house in the distance. Feet crunching in the dirt, August kept her attention on her surroundings, catching the sounds of animals skittering on branches above.

With the front door in sight, August heard an unearthly howl. Cold, icy fear dripped down her spine, her eyes closing against the knowledge that she was being followed. Her quick footsteps, sped even further, skipping along the path until she pressed herself bodily against the door. Flinging herself into the kitchen, August slid the bowl onto the counter and slammed the door shut mightily. Steve, hearing her noise and ragged breathing, came barreling out of her bedroom, pulling on a shirt. His hair was damp, skin still dripping with water from the shower. August couldn't take the time to admire the view, her fear overriding any sense of lust.

"Hell hounds," she explained. "Did you get the rock salt for the water softener?"

Before he could finish his affirmative answer, she was demanding its location. In the hall closet, the largest in the house, August yanked a large back of rock salt off the shelf and hauled it to the middle of the room. Using her fingers, she dug a hole in the plastic and grabbed a handful. Toddling over to the door, August spread the salt in a line along the entrance.

"Grab the salt, line the windows, doors, everything."

Steve went immediately to work and in minutes they had the whole house lined with salt. Leaning against the kitchen door, she waited for a sign that they were near. August felt the intrusion before she heard the scratching at the door, huffs of air blowing against the wood. She stumbled back from it, landing hard on her ass and crab walking away. Steve was kneeling at her side almost instantly, his body turned in a protective stance.

"What do we do?"

August shrugged, "Same as last time. The salt will keep them at bay, but we'll have to wait them out."

There was more shuffling around the door, some at the windows, some at the back of the house. They were, in effect, surrounded by hell hounds with very little hope of escape. They were walking in the shadows of the trees, avoiding the sun. Evening had come on quickly and there was little day light left. The height of the trees minimized that time inescapably. She didn't know how long they sat there staring at the door, but eventually August's body started to groan with the position and she pushed to standing, dusting off her pants and hands.

"Well, looks like we'll be here a while. Might as well eat something."

She pulled the top off the Tupperware container and set the large bowl in the microwave, tapping on the screen to set the time. While they waited for the soup to heat, August kept watch on the door and windows. The hounds circled constantly, looking for weaknesses in their perimeter. She heard them digging at the ground, sometimes hitting their little parcels of herbs and squealing at the scent. August sent Steve a prideful look, her mood lifting when Steve rolled his eyes.

The microwave dinged and they sat on the counter sipping mugs of soup as the hell hounds started bum rushing the walls, sending little vibrations through the house. August had to admit, the salt was a great idea despite the fact that it would ruin her floors. They might be at it all night, but August thought that the ring would hold. She'd check it in a while, making sure there were no breaks in the line.

"So," August began, "How does the team feel about you taking an extended vacation in the mountains?"

Steve shrugged, "They know I've been assigned a mission."

"Ah," she breathed, "The mission. How's that going, by the way?"

He glanced around the room, watching as the living room window fogged with exhaled breath. "I'd say it's going well."

"Oh, this is 'well'?" August shot back with a smile. "I'd hate to see what 'bad' looks like."

Steve took a sip from the mug, "Me, too."

August washed the mugs in the sink, flinching when a hell hound ran its claws over the glass of her kitchen window. She pounded back viciously, yelling at it to stop damaging her house. Immediately, she felt stupid for chiding the beast. It was being controlled by someone or something outside of itself and it was following orders. She'd still kill it if she got the chance, but she was still annoyed that she would have to paint the outside to cover the marks.

She and Steve stayed up late, sitting in front of a fire built by the Boy Scout, himself, and watching the walls. They didn't talk much, their focus on ensuring the safety of the perimeter. The hounds kept scratching and huffing and threatening silently to blow the house down. And they kept commenting on the décor. Steve thought the walls needed paint, August wanted to put up a bookshelf. They both agreed that she should probably get a proper bed. The mattress on the floor screamed 'broke loser'. Which, technically, she was—broke, at least. She had all of ten dollars to her name, tucked neatly in the tin her mother kept hidden in the fireplace. August didn't have a bank account and Mr. Jones paid her in cash so taxes really weren't an issue. She was sure the Council had erased her social security number, anyways, so she really could be called a non entity at this point.

"You know, Fury's job offer does come with a salary," Steve said off handedly.

August both snorted and rolled her eyes, "Not to mention a leash."

"Everything comes with conditions," was his reply.

She shrugged, "Not me."

Exasperated, he said, "You come with tons of conditions."

At this, August threw up her hands, "Name one."

Steve leaned one shoulder against the couch and started ticking off on his fingers, "I can't talk about the mission. I can't do anything nice for you without scrutiny. I'm sleeping on a couch that I know has seen better days. You run off whenever I try to reason with you. Your eating habits are atrocious—seriously, you eat like a teenager. You won't talk about anything personal. And, to top it off, you won't use your considerable magic to protect us against hell hounds that seem hell bent on tearing us to pieces."

August caught the short pause in his inhale, saying, "Are you done?"

"Not nearly, but I think I made my point." His eyes drifted to the window, "You're, ah, very confusing."

"I'm very confused," August commented, her shoulders dropping.

He sighed, "I can tell."

"Shut up," August replied reflexively.

"Okay."

The tone of his answer made her feel pretty bad. He was simultaneously contrite and annoyed. August didn't like it. She slumped against the cushions of the couch and let her body slide down so that her legs were stretched out towards the fireplace. The light from the kitchen cast shadows on the ceiling, throwing swirling masses on the white paint as the hell hounds passed by.

"Look, I'm not good with feelings. I try not to have them, for the most part."

Steve slouched down to mirror her position, "That's no way to live."

"My life is no way to live," August whispered. "Doesn't make it any less lived."

Rubbing his hand through his hair, Steve looked to the ceiling with her, "You gotta let that go. I know it sucks, but things are different now."

August rolled her neck to look at him, "The hell hounds at the door beg to differ."

"Point," Steve sighed, pressing his palms into his eyes. "But locking yourself in this house is equitable to being locked in your prison cell."

She started, her brows furrowing as she glared at Steve from beneath her lashes. "You don't get to pass judgment on me."

Hands slapping down on his thighs, Steve yelled, "There you go again, getting angry the second we talk about something personal."

She didn't know if it was her lack of sleep or the rise and fall of her adrenaline rushes over the last few hours, but August felt something inside her crack and leak. As it turned out, that something was her tear ducts. They were scratchy with disuse and August felt her face scrunch with the unfamiliar sensation. Rearing back, August wiped at her skin, shoving the salted tears across the fabric of her jeans as they fell.

"The fuck?"

Steve made a shushing sound, not quite reaching out to her, "Don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry."

August slapped at his hands, rolling away and falling down to the floor in a heap of emotional Jello. She pushed to her knees, wondering how so many tears could fall and at the nausea roiling in her stomach. She thought she might be becoming dehydrated because she wanted to vomit. When Steve crouched down next to her, she scrambled away. The hounds sensed the struggle and howled.

"Shut up you fucking hell beasts," August yelled to the walls. "I'm trying to have a mental breakdown in here."

Steve chimed in, "I think this looks more like an emotional breakdown."

"Shut. Up. Steve," August groaned, pressing her face to the floor and curling inwards. "No one asked for your input."

Shaking on the floor, August inhaled deeply, waiting until the tears stopped to push from the floor and sit upright on her heels.

"I forgot I could do that."

Steve leaned forward, "Do what?"

"Cry," August answered, "I forgot I could cry. I haven't cried for at least three years."

He tilted his head to the side, but remained at a respectful distance, "It's okay to cry."

"Oh please," August sneered, "You sound like a Hallmark card."

"Yeah, well, Hallmark hasn't been around forever for nothing," was his reply.

August ignored it for the most part, sniffing until her eyes were once more under control and her sinuses didn't feel like they were going to explode with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. She stood and plopped back down on the couch, flicking her hair from her eyes and refusing to meet Steve's gaze. He, too, stood and returned to his position on the couch. Once more, they fell into companionable silence, listening to the hell hounds circle and sniff at the door. August didn't have anything to say and it seemed like Steve was a little uncomfortable dealing with crying women.

There were things in August's memory that constantly fought to be dealt with, rising to the surface in her weak moments and reminding her that she had been bathed in blood—alien, monster, and human, alike. Her dreams, blessedly, hadn't been as nightmarish as she'd anticipated. The memories, though, they continued to show up. She remembered the cold, Spartan interior of her cell. She remembered the guards that barely held the high security entities at bay. She remembered food that couldn't meet the needs of her high metabolism. She remembered the first time she'd killed just because she could. August remembered what it felt like to hear them beg and not care. She remembered that she was a monster in prison.

Not wanting to finish that line of thought, August said, "Tell me about what's been happening while I've been away."

Surprised, it took Steve a minute to gather his thoughts. But, when he started talking, he spun the story with enough detail that August could really picture the events. Loki continued to wreak havoc on the building, though Darcy curbed his more dangerous stunts. Tony had built thirty or forty more suits, each more complex than the last and he was fond of test driving them at corporate events. Claire and Phil had taken a vacation in Italy—Phil had actually turned off his phone. Camilla had been injured, Clint along with her, in a mission. They were recovering, but had been benched for several months. The newbies—Evan, Belinda, and Regina—were all assigned a handler (Coulson) and were being sent out to deal with one disaster or another. The research department had been working overtime to track down the escaped prisoners, and though they were making significant progress, there was a lot of work to do.

The doctor August had seen as the big green tank was trying to create some kind of way to track dark entities using their DNA. Dr. Foster had been traveling back and forth between worlds as an ambassador to Thor's people. Steve talked a little about their wedding and the help they were receiving in the form of weapons and strategy. It seemed, all in all, that the team was doing fine without her. August wondered why Fury was so adamant to have her back and she said as much, offhandedly.

"I think he knows that you've got a lot of potential," Steve replied after a moment. "He's not one to waste a good opportunity."

August smiled widely, "Way to make a girl feel special."

He shrugged, "You're not special, not compared to the rest of us. We all have something to add."

She laughed, tossing her head back and holding her stomach, "You obviously have no idea what I'm capable of."

"That's because you won't use what you're given," Steve shot back, annoyed.

"Why waste power?"

Expression incredulous, Steve answered, "Because it will save lives."

Leaning forward on a palm, August leveled a look at him that was both serious and deadly, "No amount of lives I save will account for those I've taken."

Part of her laughed at the melodrama of the statement that was only half true, but she really did need to make him understand that she wasn't innocent. She was a killer, seemed to be born that way. August had her qualms with the fact, of course, but Steve's willful insistence that she was meant to play on the good guys' team was getting old. She much preferred to remain neutral, to ride out the fight until she emerged on the other side. It was so much easier that way.

Steve didn't say much for a long time, his gaze thoughtful and piercing. He tapped his fingers on his knee while he considered her statement, breath even. August let him think, needing to think a little, herself.

"You really believe that?" He asked.

August nodded, "Don't waste your time trying to redeem me. I'm bound for hell." More melodrama. August found that she liked it a little too much even though she was only half serious.

"I've seen enough to know that even hell isn't the last stop on the line," Steve commented lightly. "I guess it's good that we both bought tickets for the rail."

**Let me know what you think.**


	6. Chapter 6

**We get the first little taste of the villain in this chapter. **

August was dreaming. She was standing at the far end of the high security block in her prison, staring down the length of the too-white hallway. The air was thin and her lungs fought to expand. She held her hands up, firing her magic-just in case. Dangerous beings lurked in this hall, using every advantage to catch their prey.

Everything was empty, the cells, the hall, the air. The place had never been this bereft of activity. August's suspicion rose sharply at the back of her throat as she made her way towards the other end. There were double doors around the corner that led to the guard's station. She could take the opposite hall to the armory. Movement signaled to her that she was not alone, a mere wisp of flowing air. Alert, August stopped and waited.

Something ambiguous started for form in the blur of the lights. She took a step back. It solidified into a person, far from monstrous. She was blonde, tall, girl next door pretty. She wore a black, lace covered dress that looked vaguely ceremonial. August cringed.

"Find us," she said.

August lifted a brow, "No thanks."

Looking unsurprised, the woman shrugged and held out her hand. August caught the blue of her veins beneath the nearly translucent skin. She hadn't seen the sun I quite some time. Otherwise, the appendage was unremarkable. August dropped her arms to her side and took another step back, clearly indicating her rejection. The woman's palm remained in place.

The sound of rushing water filled the room, shaking the bars of the cells until they rattled. August refused to be cowed by the show of theatrics. She stared down the stranger with ire. From the outstretched palm, a bright flash of color burst forth. In half an instant August was pummeled with a mucous-laden red liquid. The copper smell indicated to her that this was blood. August was overwhelmed, sent reeling to the floor and covered by the wave until she couldn't breathe. August drowned in that sea.

Sitting upright, August pushed the hair from her eyes and inhaled deeply. She was in her room, in her house, and out of the dream. Pressing her hand to her forehead, August wiped at the sweat that had formed. The sun was rising and, despite the fact that she still had time to rest, August got up and grabbed her clothes before heading to the bathroom.

The shower was scalding, but August endured it to wash away the feeling of being coated in blood. It clung to her despite a generous amount of soap and shampoo. Disgusted, she turned off the water and stepped out to towel off.

August's face in the mirror was perhaps more stern than she intended, a frown on her mouth and her brows drawn together. She looked tired. She felt tired. August wanted to crawl right back into bed and lay there for a week, but she had a job waiting for her and Steve was likely to get suspicious. After dressing, she opened her bedroom door and looked out into the living room. Steve was on the couch, arm thrown over his eyes, looking very uncomfortable as he slept. August felt a little stab of guilt. The couch clearly wasn't big enough for his massive size, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do anything about it. He chose to come here and stay (at her insistence). He chose to continue with the mission (at her resistance). There was really nothing she could do for the miserable conditions.

Quietly, August tip toed through the house and out the kitchen door. While she walked the familiar trek, she thought about the dream. It didn't surprise her that the prison was prominently featured. The woman was a little creepy and the blood may have been overkill, but something about it just didn't sit well with her. The feeling stuck with her all the way to town until she strolled into the book store and tossed her pack onto the front desk. Mr. Jones was in the back, probably making coffee, and August took a moment to check the protection glyphs. Still holding, they glowed faintly in recognition. She gave them a little pat on the back and headed for the break room.

The smell of coffee wafted to her nose and August felt once more the fatigue that had soaked into her very bones. Sitting at the table, she sipped from her cup while Mr. Jones gathered the morning paper under his arm and returned to the front desk. With a sigh, August leaned over and grabbed an old phone from the counter and picked up the receiver, dialing a number she'd already memorized.

When someone picked up on the other side, she said, "I need to speak with Camilla Paige. Tell her its August."

There was a shuffle and she was kept on hold for far longer than she would have expected. Finally, a soft 'hello' rang out over the line.

"Camilla, August," she began. "I got a problem."

"Clearly," Camilla retorted, "But do go on."

Rolling her eyes, August barreled forwards, "Look, I had this dream last night about the prison. There was this creepy lady and she had this river of blood gushing from her hand. Any idea what that could mean?"

Camilla was silent for a several long beats, then, "Was she blonde?"

"Ah, yeah."

A sigh, long and deep. "I've seen her once or twice over the last six months. Always a single face in a group of people wearing holocaust cloaks."

Rubbing at her face, August edged, "So, trouble?"

Even without seeing her, August could tell that Camilla was smiling, "With you? Always. Listen, maybe you should talk to Claire."

August cut her off, "I don't want to talk to Claire. I want to talk to you."

"Okay," Camilla replied lightly, as if taking a strategic retreat. "I don't know what it means, but Banner and Foster got this algorithm going on. They're tracking this stupid shit going on all over the country and its… well, its heading straight for you."

Pursing her lips, August sneered, "And you didn't think to tell me?"

"Why do you think Captain America is out there? He's supposed to be keeping an eye on you."

She had the urge to sigh and bang her hand on the table. Instead, she gritted, "He wants to take me back to the tower."

Camilla paused, "Don't you think that would be the safest bet?"

"I'd rather stay at home." And that was the truth. August was tired of being held hostage by one event or another, her power notwithstanding. She just wanted to live her life in her home not bothering anyone and not being bothered in return.

Clearing her throat, Camilla whispered, "Be careful, then. Something got out when Claire crossed between worlds through the Gate. We thought it might team up with the released prisoners, but…it's actually killing them. She says that someone is controlling it, like, voodoo hoodoo or something."

"No shit," August said with a smile, leaning back to make sure Mr. Jones was still reading his paper. "I got Mr. Franklin on blonde lady leading the charge. Can you find out who she is?"

"Yeah," Camilla drawled, "I'll just pull her name and social security number right out of my crystal ball. You know it doesn't work like that."

Unfortunately, Camilla was right. Her visions could be vague and more often than not misleading. Camilla could see entire civilizations fall or she could see the barest snippet of conversation. Her power couldn't be counted upon with any regularity despite its overall usefulness.

"I know," August murmured, "Worth a shot, though."

Another pause, and Camilla was asking, "How is it going with Cap, anyways?"

"Oh, he's oodles of fun," August retorted sardonically. "Ornery, though. Stubborn like."

Camilla laughed, "Figures. Just don't kill him. Apparently the government spent big money making him a superhero. They get touchy with their possessions."

The explanation gave August pause, wondering is Steve saw himself as the possession of the US government. It would certainly help her to understand why he kept lining up for duty when, clearly, he could retire just fine. She'd have to look into that later.

"Listen, I gotta go," August said into the phone. She hung up without waiting for a reply, setting the phone back into place.

For a while, August sat at the break room table and tapped her fingertips against it, lip curling in thought. Who wore holocaust cloaks nowadays? And she thought she was the dramatic type. Shaking her head, August pushed to standing and made her way out to the front desk, touching the bookcases as she went. Mr. Jones folded his newspaper and looked at her.

"I need you to make a delivery."

With a chuckle, August retorted, "For the book club?"

Mr. Jones paused halfway through a breath and gazed at her with mild confusion. He shook it off and continued, "There's a lady, couple-a blocks into town that ordered one of the new Clancy novels. She's bedridden and I need you to get it to her."

"Oh," August replied, just a little uncomfortable. "Sure. What's the address?"

Writing down the number and street, Mr. Jones handed her the parcel and sent her on her way. August read the little slip of paper a few times before shoving it into her pocket and striding away from the store. Three blocks over, two blocks up, fifth house on the right. Standing in front of the older building, August pulled the address from her pocket and checked it. She was in the right place.

The landscaping was overgrown, but not so much that it engulfed the house. It looked like the lady must pay someone to come in once in a while and clean it up. They weren't doing a very good job of it. August pushed some of the brush aside while she walked, making a path slowly to the house. The stairs didn't creak when she stomped up them and the porch was clear of debris. A broom sat to the right of the door, used and worn. August looked for a doorbell and found none, then reached to knock on the wood. Before her hand could drop the first time, the door swung open and an elderly lady peered up at her from behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

"Are you here to read to me?"

August backpedaled quickly, stuttering while holding up the book in an almost defensive position.

The lady paid her no heed, "Well come on in. I've made tea and the armchair is very comfortable."

Slack-jawed, August stared after her as she turned and waddled down the hall to, presumably, the living room. She glanced around, wondering if anyone would see her sprint from the porch and down the block. When the lady called out to her, she realized that she could probably do nothing else but follow. With a sigh, she stepped reluctantly inside and closed the door behind her. The house was still and silent, filled near to the brim with little mementos and framed pictures. August spared little time looking at them, focused on getting in and getting out as soon as possible.

She found the lady sitting on a large, overstuffed couch at the far end of a wide room. Next to it was, she assumed, the comfortable armchair the lady had mentioned. August took two steps and stopped.

"Look, I'm just here to deliver the book."

The lady tilted her head to the side, "And read to me. Mr. Jones was very specific. He said you'd read to me."

Biting her lip, August made a mental note to speak with Mr. Jones upon her return, whenever that would be. She clenched her jaw and trudged over to the armchair, sitting. The lady was right, the chair was comfortable. _Damn._ She swallowed and settled deeper into the cushion, opening the book.

"Have some tea, August," the lady said, holding up a cup.

August flinched, "I never mentioned my name."

She smiled, "No, but Mr. Jones told me."

"Oh," August replied, taking the cup and sipping gingerly at it. The tea was strong and hot, two sugars. August liked sugar in her tea. Begrudgingly, she took another sip and set it aside.

"My name is Mrs. Henry. You can call me Agnes."

"Agnes," August repeated dumbly. "Ok, Agnes, let's get started."

She read the prologue, and the first few pages, stopping only occasionally to take a sip of tea. Agnes kept it perpetually filled with more from the teapot that sat on the coffee table at her knees. Somehow the brew stayed warm despite the fact that August read for several minutes at a time. They made it through the first two chapters before August had to look at the last sentence she'd read and sneer.

"That is such bullshit," she said, freezing when she noticed that she'd said it out loud.

Agnes smiled, "Yes. But I like this kind of bullshit."

"It's your story," August replied, continuing to read. She completed another chapter and Agnes stopped her.

"I think that's enough for now."

August closed the book and set it to the side, downing the last of her tea and standing. "Okay, well, it was nice meeting you."

The frivolity stuck on her tongue, but she said it anyway just to be polite. Truthfully, she wanted out of the house and back to the bookstore before the end of her shift. Then, she wanted to get back to the house and try to clean out the rest of the dark mess that kept creeping in.

Agnes held out a hand, which August took. "So nice to meet you. I'll see you tomorrow." At August's confused look, Agnes continued, "Mr. Jones always sends someone to finish the book. We have quite a way to go."

Nodding, August turned on her heel and strode out of the room, down the hall, and out into the open air without stopping. Her feet stomped the pavement repeatedly until she was standing outside the bookstore, half dazed and angry. Storming inside, she looked for Mr. Jones. Finding him sitting innocently in the children's section, August approached with her argument already at the back of her throat.

"How was Agnes?"

August paused, "Fine. Not bedridden at all, actually."

"Ah," Mr. Jones said, calm and composed while August was fuming impotently. "She always recovers quickly."

"I don't care how she recovers," August spat. "You sent me to read to an old lady for four hours."

Mr. Jones relaxed into the old rocking chair, pushing against the ground with his foot so that he swayed back and forth. "Has it been that long?"

Gritting her teeth, August replied, "You know exactly how long it has been."

He stood and stretched with a yawn, "Go home, August. Your shift is over."

"I'm not going back tomorrow."

Mr. Jones just smiled and waved her away, as if dismissing a small child. August wanted to stamp her foot. She wanted to throw her hands to the ceiling and scream that she was an all powerful being that could literally rip the town in two if she so pleased. She did _not_ read to old ladies. It would have done her no good in the end, August knew. He'd send her anyways. Frustrated, August grabbed her pack and left without another word. The trek back to her house was shortened by her anger. Before she could come up with a coherent argument or reply to the idiocy of reading to old people, she was standing at her front doorstep.

Inside, Steve was standing at the stove, bent over a large, boiling pot. August narrowed her gaze at him suspiciously while she set her things aside.

"What are you doing?"

Steve turned a smiled at her, "Making dinner."

Craning her neck, August peered over the rim of the pot to check the contents. "That… doesn't look like dinner."

He sighed, "Just sit down and I'll bring you a bowl."

Holding up her hands defensively, August did as he asked, folding herself onto the couch and resting against the cushions. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as Agnes' armchair, but August couldn't complain. It was all she had until yard sale season in the Spring. Steve spooned a serving into two bowls, turning and walking carefully to the couch. He leaned down a little and August reached upwards to take the proffered dinner.

Holding it to her chest, August sniffed it suspiciously, looking intently for some sign of the ingredients. There were vegetables and some kind of meat in a white, gravy-like, sauce that smelled like potatoes or wheat. Taking the spoon from the side of the bowl, she dipped it into the stew and held it aloft, blowing carefully at the steaming mix. The first bite was tentative, a small taste to check for anything that might ring strange in the whole thing. The second was taken with more confidence and every bite thereon was gratefully delivered to her hungry belly.

Steve watched her surreptitiously, his own meal draining quickly from the bowl. August tried not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was enjoying the meal, still spiteful in her core. To his credit, he pretended not to notice. When his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, he stood.

"Want another? I made enough to last a while."

She hesitated, inclined to turn his offer down for some unnamed reason that sat at the back of her skull like a peering raven in a mystery novel. It squawked at her that one was enough and that taking two would infer debt. She mentally shot it with a pellet gun and held up the bowl.

While Steve was busy filling their second helpings, August said, "Had an interesting day at work."

"Oh?" he replied, turning a little to look at her.

His profile caught the light from the window, lambasting her. August somehow always forgot that he was handsome. Steve Rogers and handsome just didn't seem to go together despite the fact that she saw it regularly. She shook her head.

"Yeah, Mr. Jones sent me with a book delivery. Turns out, it was also my job to read three or four chapters of the thing to the old lady who lived there."

Steve laughed, shoulders shaking as he carried the soup across the living room to her. August took the bowl, glaring.

"It's not funny. She kept giving me tea and saying that parts of the book were bullshit. I had no idea what I was doing the entire time."

Steve leaned against the arm of the sofa opposite her, folding one leg beneath him. "I would have liked to see that."

August continued to glare, "You wouldn't have made it through the front door before I'd put you on your ass."

His eyes squinted at her as he spooned another helping of the stew into his mouth, chewing slowly. August returned his look with equal intensity, her skin and nerves firing with the thought of maybe getting a few practice rounds with him.

"You'd risk using your magic in that old lady's house?"

She shrugged, "Nah, just good old fashioned elbow grease."

Steve waited a moment, eyes assessing her seriousness. "Challenge accepted, August."

"Was I offering a challenge?" She replied lightly, satisfaction rolling in her belly.

Downing the last of his stew, Steve stood and gave her a hard look, "You know you were."

She feigned innocence for just a moment more, milking the moment, "If that's how you want to take it, far be it from me to disagree."

He turned from her, sauntering into the kitchen and washing out the dish. August could tell that he was faintly amused by the way his shoulders bowed ever so slightly forward as if to hide his smile. She allowed him to think he hid it well enough, stretching out her legs along the cushions of the couch and savoring the last bit of her stew.

When she finished, Steve was already at her side, taking the bowl from her, "Go get changed into something you can move in. We'll see about me landing on my ass."

For half a second, August was stunned at how intense his expression had become, how focused his demeanor. Then, she hopped off the couch and scuttled to the bedroom. Once inside, she did a little victory dance, knowing that this would let off a little steam and keep her in practice, just in case there were more dark entities surrounding the house. Flinging off her jeans and hoodie, she slipped into a pair of gym shorts, sports bra, and a tank top. In the bathroom, she groomed and plaited her hair close to her scalp, letting the bulk of the braid fall back behind her shoulders. And just for good measure, she moisturized her skin to give herself the tiniest advantage.

Feeling uncharacteristically meek, August peered out of her bedroom into the living room, opening the door a small fraction and holding it there for a moment before stepping out. She picked at the hem of her shorts, settling near the center of the living room while Steve put the leftovers in the fridge. He set the pot into the sink and wiped his hands on a towel. August waited a little while more, subtly stretching her hamstrings.

Turning, Steve took long steps towards her, the momentum so quick that August was automatically put on the defensive. Rather than attack, he moved past her to the duffel hidden behind the couch. Leaning down, he picked up the duffel and rifled through it to pull out a pair of sweats and a t shirt. Disappearing into the bedroom, Steve presumable went to change. August took to opportunity to jump on the balls of her feet and open the muscles up with some blood and heat. She knew she wasn't in top form, but this would just be sparring—a little adrenaline to get the rust off.

When Steve returned, he deposited his dirty clothes next to the duffel.

"Let's get this couch out the way."

Together, they pushed the couch to the far end of the room against the large windows that faced the front yard. August dusted off her hands and returned to the middle of the floor.

"You want to lay down ground rules?"

Steve smiled, "No magic, no hitting below the belt."

She laughed, "You take the fun out of it."

"It's just practice," he replied, rolling his shoulders, the muscles bulging at the seams of his t shirt.

August swallowed and braced her feet, "I know. I'll go easy on you."

He paused, "Don't."

Her eyebrows rose near to her hairline. She was both surprised and excited at the prospect of stretching her skills. "Okay. You asked for it."

"Yes I did," Steve murmured as her squared off with her.

August jumped on her toes a few times before settling into defensive position, her hands out in front of her. They circled a few times, each trying to wait the other out. August knew he was strong, could tell that, if he would to put the full weight of his body on her, she wouldn't stand a chance. She hoped to tire him out quickly and then end the fight with some kind of grace. The use of magic—or lack thereof—wouldn't be a problem. She couldn't afford to draw more darkness to them.

In the end, it was August the made the first move, tired of waiting for Steve to finally attack. She darted to the left and made a small attempt at an uppercut to the middle of his chest. He blocked it, of course, and spun a little away from her. She feinted a jab, ducking down to sweep his feet out from under him. Steve jumped and kicked out, barely missing her head by an inch. August could feel the wind of the potential blow brush past her skin, electrifying her with the potential of danger.

Heart beginning to beat faster, August used a couple of combo punches, surprised as Steve blocked each with quiet efficiency. She could hear him breathing rhythmically as they exchanged little blows, neither quite hitting home. August realized that neither was hold back, exactly, merely testing the waters and carefully extending the limits. The longer they sparred, the more complex the movements became. Eventually, there was no pause in the motions as all. They were continuously punching, kicking, and blocking each other.

August managed to get in a solid punch, sacrificing a glancing blow to her thigh in the process. It ached slightly, but she ignored it, focused on working into the weak spot in Steve's defenses. He was so much bigger than her, the difference in their sizes never more apparent to her than when he was bearing down on her with punch after punch. She could only duck below his range of motion and hit at his lower body, trying to knock him to the flat of his back.

August swung out a leg, gasping when he caught it, hooked into his bicep, and brought her down so that she was balanced with one palm on the floor. Using that grounding as leverage, she lifted the free legs and landed a square kick to his midsection. Steve grunted harshly and loosened his grip enough that August was able to pull her leg free and scramble away. She made it about three feet, her hands on the cushion of the couch to push to standing once more, before Steve gripped her braid and yanked hard enough that she felt some of the strands snap.

With a garbled yell, August reached back to hold at her scalp, trying to ease the sharp pain a little. On her knees, she scrambled for purchase, hearing Steve ease closer and tighten his grip enough that she called out again. His free hand pressed at the small of her back, shoving her forward until her hips were flush against the couch and her spine arched backwards. She reached back and dug her nails into his thighs, satisfied by the ensuing hiss of breath.

In a swift motion, Steve pushed her head down until she was prone, her body nearly immobilized as he dropped most of his weight atop her.

"You done?" He huffed into her ear, heart beating hard against her back.

August was breathing hard into the cushions, mouth scraping against the fabric. She worked one leg beneath her and, in a feat of strength she couldn't hope to repeat, pushed them backwards and upwards so that they lifted bodily from the ground. She landed atop him, knocking the air out of both their lungs. Twisting, she grabbed his wrist and, using both hands, turned it until she could feel the joint begin to groan. Beneath her, Steve shifted uncomfortably, his free hand pulling at her knee in an attempt to knock her off balance.

When she held him for a bit, August growled, "You done?"

Eyes blazing, Steve let the muscle of his arm go momentarily lax, then hauled her over and down until her laid across her perpendicularly, his elbow digging into her sternum. August grabbed at his hair, pulling until his neck rolled into the motion, his cheek flattening against her breasts. He slipped his hand beneath her knee and jerked it upwards, curling her body inward. August pressed her foot outwards, wincing when he once again used his body weight against her to pull her into a fetal position.

Thinking quickly, August trapped his arm and part of his other hand in between her legs, holding them still with her clenched thighs until they ached. Both of them held the position for a long time—so long, in fact, that August became very slightly uncomfortable with the proximity. His breath was fanning out over the backs of her thighs and knees, his hands curled around her abdomen and one hip, ensnared by the position of their entwined bodies. She couldn't make another move without giving up her position. He couldn't extricate himself without risking a knock to the face or body. As it stood, they were at an impasse.

Soon enough, August's muscles began to burn and shake, her body giving out under the strain of holding him captive to for so long. She refused to let go, clenching her eyes shut against the pain and the ache. It ran through her, clenching her nerves and forcing her to work mentally to overcome the imbalance.

Steve bit her. Actually fucking bit her. His teeth pressed into the sensitive skin behind her knee, hitting some kind of nerve that sent her flailing. It seared through her nervous system, settling somewhere she hadn't felt in a really long time. Surprised and flustered, August let him go and rolled into a crouch a couple of feet away, her eyes wide and staring. He was looking at her with such intensity that she thought she could feel the miniscule movements of his eyes along her skin.

"The fuck?"

Steve smiled and she felt another pang of heat drop low in her belly. August gripped her knees and stood, walking away to the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

"I didn't know that was against the rules," Steve called after her.

"It wasn't," She called back through the door, sitting on the bed and thinking about what had just happened.

Folding her hands between her knees, August leaned over and pressed her forehead into her palms, breathing out slowly. She worked her jaw to loosen the muscle, heels bouncing off the floorboards while she waited for her brain to reboot. She'd been bitten in fights before, had done the same whenever she was in a tight spot. Somehow, Steve's teeth sinking into the nerve filled flesh screamed through her until August had to force herself to pull back from the memory. Absently, she rubbed the spot, feeling the little indentations in a half circle.

Taking another breath, August stood and paced to the bathroom and back, hands folded over the back of her neck. She didn't understand her sudden and strange reaction to the unexpected move. In a way, she felt some kind of disgust that he'd marked her with his saliva no matter how unpredictably… nice it had been. Her lip curled. Nice wasn't the feeling she should be associating with the experience. August was much more comfortable with disgust.

Heading to the bathroom, August showered quickly, pulling on a comfy pair of sweats and a hoodie, her wet hair once more plaited into a tight braid. She entered the living room with her hands pushed into the large front pocket of the hoodie, her shoulders bowed slightly. Steve was sitting on the couch (moved back to its proper place), a pile of clothes sitting beside him. He glanced at her before grabbing his clothes and heading to shower. August took the time to pad over to the stove and put water on to boil.

The tea was bitter, over steeped due to her distraction, but warm and comforting. She sat cross legged on the couch, holding the mug to her chest while she waited for Steve to finish in the bathroom. For a few minutes, everything was still and quiet in the house, save for the sound of running water. August leaned her head back against the cushion, breathing deeply and allowing her mind to venture forward into the future. There was more work to be done on the house and of course she would still be working shifts at the store. The larger, looming issue of the continued dark presence around the house and Camilla's baleful warning about more to come seemed to somehow always exist in the periphery. Maybe it was because August had long lived with the threat of death nearby, or maybe she had finally become jaded with her lifestyle, but it just wasn't as fantastical as it probably should have been. She was nonplussed.

Steve returned from the bathroom, ambling into the living room and fixing her with a look that said they were going to have a talk. She shifted uncomfortably and pressed the mug to her sternum, as if it would ground her against the conversation.

"I want to apologize," Steve began.

August shrugged, "You really don't have to. I was caught off guard."

He ran one hand through his hair, looking off into the distance for a moment, "I shouldn't have done that."

"No," she retorted, "You did what you had to—what you would have in any fight."

Steve laughed, dropping his arm and moving to sit down on the couch next to her, "That's the thing, I really don't think I would have in any other fight."

Sipping from her tea, August drawled, "I said it before, you know just how to make a girl feel special."

Seemingly flustered, Steve pressed his palms to his knees, hands flexing over the curve. August drained the last of her tea and stood, stepping away towards the kitchen to set the cup in the sink. She turned and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms across her chest.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she pronounced with authority. "Let's just let it go."

He seemed to accept the explanation reluctantly, his mouth forming a pout. "It's been quiet lately. Nothing all day."

August tilted her head to the side, "Getting bored?"

He smiled, "Just a little. Might have to do some exploring."

She looked out of the window into the woods, "You should be careful. I used to explore the trees as a child. Easy to get lost."

Steve shrugged, "I can handle it."

"Right," she replied. "Boy Scout."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

This time it was August who shrugged, "It's not. Just an observation."

The rest of the night continued in the pattern of quiet. August drank another glass of tea and Steve did a little laundry in the tub. When she said goodnight, he was pulling a book from his bag. She noticed that it was the same thriller that she was reading Agnes earlier. It made her want to roll her eyes. Instead, she gave a half hearted wave and fell limply into bed.

**I think I like Agnes, mainly because of what she does to August. **


End file.
